Thursday, January 9, 2014

Wakeful





Wakeful







Without this pain
that wakes me before daybreak
there'd be no ochre night sky
in my eyes, no shooting stars
welcome as windfall apples, heady as cider;
without this stabbing ache
there'd be no tombstone bones
put up and steeped with flowers
for the hard-pressed, sweet-voiced men
who made these ghost-town hips their resting place.




~January 2014 










55 petals and headstones for     the g-man







Top Image: Forest, by Mikalojus Ciurlioni, 1919, public domain   via wikipaintings.org
Bottom photography by Kristin Hatgi Sink, via facebook.  No copyright infringement is intended.


16 comments:

  1. Oh, the nights I've had, just like this. Accidentally went away after Christmas without my sleep apnea machine. Pain and wakefulness again...your "stabbing ache" describes it perfectly.
    Sigh.
    K

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  2. if the pain wakes you up to write these i guess i am grateful for it...some good in the bad you know....the star apple connection is really cool...the rest of it though, the tombstones of the men who died in the ghost town of these hips..by far my fav part....

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  3. I really like that fifth line about the apples and cider. Everything and everyone that we win and then lose, marks us, doesn't it, and we wouldn't be the same, otherwise. is that a good thing? I'm not really sure, but this poem makes me feel as if there is some kind of gain along with the loss, and a way to accept it all in the end.

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  4. I still say the pain is over rated. You can get the same view by having to pee every couple of hours. :)

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  5. Oh, yeah...it's good to know sometimes that pain has a value, hedgewitch.

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  6. Sigh...very beautiful. I feel unworthy to even comment, but the last four lines, my favorites. I mean...who can come up with such phrases as tombstone bones and ghost-town hips, other than a masterful poet?

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  7. What a beautiful 55 - I got lost in it! And that photograph - Oh, so sweet!

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  8. Stunning, Morose, Kinky....Hopefully Fiction!
    I can't find the proper words for your weekly amazements.
    Loved your Hedgewitchesque 55
    ( Felliniesque has NOTHING on you)
    Thank you for humoring me, you are one of the best.
    Have a Kick Ass Week End

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  9. "tombstone bones/put up and steeped with flowers" is just beautiful. the piece turns on these lines, for me. ~

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  10. I am on iPhone and lost comment so will try again but may be even more inarticulate-- there are wonderful ironies here-- the cider is heady while the men are hard-pressed (and associated with hips.). And there is some kind of irony to me in the title wakeful with the tomb bones--and ghost town too-- as they seem rather somber and deleted and wakeful is restless I guess but makes one think of wakes as well as awake. Of course I love the ghost town hips but I find the ochre sky in the eyes very compelling. It feels almost like the color of the eyes as well as what they see. Wonderful. K.

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  11. Ah, pain is the route to so much of life. Great write.

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  12. The ending is eerie and the melancholy is quite endearing. Sometimes even pain is necessary to keep us going... may be this breath is a breath because of it
    I loved the image of apples and shooting stars and of course the tombstones and bones. Also, the photograph of the woman is beautiful.
    -HA
    -HA

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  13. Killer last line. I like the way you moved it from pain in the bones to a pain in the soul...thinking the latter yields more ocher night skies and shooting stars than the first, but it's too close to call.

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  14. the most beautiful redemption of pain I have read in a long, long time. maybe ever. Your closure swipes at the past, but really-- in my opinion-- brings light to the story. There is a feeling of rest, but strangely enough, not completion. It seems the ghost-town hips keep it alive. brilliant write, Hedge.

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  15. So nice that there's something gained.

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  16. Dem old singing bones ... The outrages against Philomena oddly fittingly transform into the nightingale's song, and when the bird's beak pierces our heart we too open and mouths and commence singing. The first five lines invoke what the second five lines transform.

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg