Wednesday, January 1, 2014

The Runner



The Runner






In turquoise white wind
I watch you run the track,
overclocked, eyes 
of lapis stone made slits
as your carborundum soul made sluts
of us all, cheated by a millennial
shortage of virgins.

I watch you run
harder than you ever cared;
not the grey waste of bone and fog,
the corpse man of now, but the boy
who loved his dog and me
till the wolf stepped out to
stare us both away.

Run on in your baby-fine skin
your snow-eyes squint-smiling,
softshell spirits busy at rip and heave
behind your shipwreck face,
knowing the race is a joke
the finish a scripted dissolve,
winning endlessly temporary.

I watch
until you fade
in  hungry dust.
The particled cloud
settles black
as a  fall of scorpions.


           Best to never  have
to run like that 
                                                                       again.




~January 2014


Running man


 posted for      real toads



Kerry's Wednesday Challenge: Resolutions
Kerry O"Connor of Skylover gives us the nudge:"The challenge is entirely open to personal interpretation of the theme:"Resolutions" and the poem you write for this challenge may be reflective, narrative, analytical or abstract."








Top Image: Wolf Dog, 1976, by Jamie Wyeth
May be protected by copyright. Posted under fair use guidelines via wikipaintings.org
Footer Image: running man, by Max Froumentin, on flick'r
Shared under a Creative Commons License


25 comments:

  1. *gibbers senselessly, momentarily stunned*

    Okay, that violent yanking you hear is not the spirits, it is me tearing my hair out again. This is singular stuff, written with punch, passion and a certain world-weary chafe. Only you would come up with "carborundum soul" and I genuinely wonder where you store these sorts of words and ideas, to pull them out of thin air whenever.

    Your accompanying picture is a wolf dog, and so it seems this person addressed here is, as well. Alternately seducing and wounding (in the non-comic way...you'll know what I mean by that), ripping itself and its admirers to inevitable shreds in the process. If one feels pain, then one is alive, so they say, but at a certain point the couch and the fire start to sound better than all of this chasing after a moving target that dissolves disappointingly anyway. Still, like Jack London's story, the wild will always call us; it's just, I think, that we get too experienced and weary to answer like we did before. Those of us that survive know the price of such runnings.

    Really really gorgeous writing and sharp characterization. It's poetry, and it's good to know i can always find it here.

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  2. Hey Hedge,

    it reads like a gut-punch that keeps on giving body blows for Christmas. yet it is my eyes that wet - not my ribs. You touch me with stealth and a sincerity that I fail to find in reality. Making this a true gift, outside the realm of mere material:




    I watch you run

    harder than you ever cared;

    not the grey waste of bone and fog,
    the corpse man of now, but the boy
    who loved his dog and me
    till the wolf stepped out to
    stare us both away.

    best for the year ahead.

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  3. I can't say I quite understand this, but it moved me still. I don't know, there's something very harsh and real about it. And the part that Aaron posted - that was my favorite part. The wolf-dog image - I like it. It fits.

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  4. The wolves are gone, but we're overrun with rats. I feel OK with slowing down this year.

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  5. The dogs of time do wreak havoc on the opportunists ... some devastating, stellar phrase in this ("grey waste of time and fog," "fall of scorpions,") suggesting the curse has been brewing in the pot for a long while. But then it may take such magnitude to clear the mirror. Great job, Hedge. - B

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  6. Wow. What a wonderful poem to bring in the new year with. Thank you for sharing.

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  7. hard hitting write...there is always a call of the wild it just gets muted with all the other stuff that fills the air...

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  8. my new favorite of yours. certainly of the year (is there an emoticon for sardonic grin?)

    but I think we have no choice to run, like that, again, until our bones splinter and fall.

    to a 14 that is one number more than 13 ~

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  9. slow is a good enough speed for me...this is a tight verse hedge....did you know that when ants lose the trail they will sometimes turn and catch the pheremone scent of the last one in line and they end up walking in a circle until they kill themselves never arriving...true stuff...and a whole lot like how we end up if we let....

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  10. I'm guessing you are not considering a running program for the new year. I enjoy reading and rereading this for the saturating imagery and confident rhythm. Your first stanza is esp. super-powered. Carborundum soul. No kin to the multitudes with their/our warm-fuzzy, I'm-willing-to-do-something-extra-for-a-few-months resolutions. Brilliant poetry. What a way to start the year.

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    1. Ha! You guess right Jane. I do intend to do some walking though. I know that running is a positive for you and a lot of people, a difficult but constructive discipline that heals and helps one deal--thanks for not taking my metaphor personally--the poem is from a dream I had and transcribed pretty literally. Thanks so much for reading, and for your kind words always.

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  11. I especially noted the same lines that Arron quoted. And the shipwreck face. A fantastic write, Hedge.

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  12. Hi--I will try not to be too incoherent (sorry for all my prior lapses.) This feels a terribly sad poem. Actually, I find it sadder than the Blue Ice one. (Perhaps I am a sucker for narcissists.) But I keep thinking of people like Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady and that ilk--I can come up with more, but it feels a bit painful--these very talented or at least charismatic types who thought they could be young and wild and just possibly a bit contemptuous forever. (I don't think Keruoac was wolf-like--I suppose I'm thinking more of Cassady, or perhaps Richard from that Joni Mitchell song.) Even as one might feel relieved for a distance from such characters, that part of us that would forever by young (and hip) is terribly drawn to them, and honestly, they do often have some intense diamond/wolflike/captivating beauty. The disjunctions in your poem bring out the conflicts, and for me, at least, strengthened the connection with a "Beat" archetype. Happy New Year, and again, my apologies for my sometimes disjointedness. K.

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    Replies
    1. No apologies needed. I am always interested to see what you find in my poems, k. The person in question I'm afraid was not quite of the diamond quality that the figures you are reminded of were, though perhaps he did want to be that sort of figure--in fact,he ended up with a very sad, almost tormented sort of life (at least the last I knew of him--he may have changed by now), and one I'm grateful to have left behind, though of course I wasn't at the time. But I think your reading is perfectly valid and quite astute, hitting on that fleeting elusive, attractive quality of charismatic wildness, that the rebel, the outsider. can have, and that we envy. Happy New Year your way as well, and thanks as ever for all your time, energy and insight.

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  13. as your carborundum soul made sluts
    of us all, cheated by a millennial
    shortage of virgins.

    Reading this is like a punch in the face. So powerful HW. HAppy new year

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  14. I wish I could hang out with your muse...but I fear I wouldn't have the vocabulary to hang out for long. Brilliant as always Joy...What a way to begin a new year.

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  15. Your "carborundum soul" gripped me, demanding a careful read of the rest of this tale about love lost, looked back on with clarity and relief. I would love an afternoon of tea and scones and conversation just to enjoy the richness of your experience and insight.

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  16. whew, wow! just to take a break from running. no shortage of reasons to run. sigh.

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  17. I'll spare you my babbling about how painfully well I relate to this piece and just say that what I found most striking is the flawless pacing. This gets the reader holding her breath and creeping ever closer to the edge of the cliff . . . until she falls. Masterful work, Hedge.

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  18. god damn, you break my heart with your stuff. i found myself staring out the window at the snowy world for a few minutes after the first read. happy new year:) all good things to you in 2014:)

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  19. The second stanza is powerful - it is sad when people change - or perhaps its we that change. Either way, sometimes it is impossible to keep up with the other and we must let them slip away… That's where my mind went with this…

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  20. Your imagery is sharp and striking...the entirety is brimming with story and suspense. I enjoyed this, Hedge...you're so creative.

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  21. late to the party, but wanted to post to say this is fucking brilliant. Funny how the fast flee feels like living and dying all at once, which you have captured here beautifully, me thinks.

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  22. not the grey waste of bone and fog,
    the corpse man of now, but the boy
    who loved his dog and me... God, I love these lines!

    There is so much to take away from a poem like this. It speaks to me of the hopes of youth when resolution is somehow easier to believe in, and the long hard race of life which tears at that belief with sharp teeth... until the boy and corpse become one.

    I wish you the very best for 2014, and if this poem is anything to judge from, I expect to find a haven here for a poet and a reader in many days to come.

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