Sunday, February 16, 2014

Morning Light





Morning Light
A Quatern


You are morning of my last day
the saw sun that cuts through the bars
the smell of earth as frost lifts
the runes and stars on my back

dripping off the indigo night.
You are morning of my last day;
a thunder that promises rain,
a place where the outside comes in,

where blue sky of invisible moon
blankets a raised lacework of scars.
On the morning of my last day
you're a rose wind with too much to say,

my foxfire harp in the dawn, 
the tectonic bend at the end;
how I'll never know where you are
like the morning of my last day.





~February 2014










 posted for     real toads
Sunday  Form Challenge: The Quatern
Kerry O'Connor once again presents us with a fascinating form to explore: the quatern. She informs us: 'A Quatern is a sixteen line French form composed of four quatrains. It is similar to the Kyrielle, which repeats line 4 as a refrain throughout the poem. However, with the Quatern, the refrain is in a different place in each quatrain....' For full details, see the link above. After much experiment, I chose not to rhyme this one, except coincidentally . There is also one line with nine syllables--you will just have to shoot me.













Top Image: Cape Cod Morning, 1950, by Edward Hopper
Footer: Early Morning, 1942, by Rene Magritte
May be protected by copyright~posted under fair use guidelines.

26 comments:

  1. I read this poem as a hungry woman enjoys a feast prepared by another's hands. The Hopper painting is one of my very favourite things and your opening (and repeating line) has made it more perfect in my eyes. This poem is the most exquisite Aubade I have read in a long time. You do this simple form justice - elevate it to a thing of beauty.

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    1. Thank you Kerry--I'm so glad you enjoyed it, and thank you for the excellent challenge--writing has been quite iffy of late, so this helped a lot.

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  2. I knew you'd manage it--a new favorite--first, a great refrain--momentous, in lots of ways, but also very pictorial--what I especially like here--besides the entire conceit--is the very soft word play--the raised lacework kept reading to me as razed lacework which also worked so well with the moisture of that night sky, the sun saw cutting the bars terrific many levels -- yes a kind of opening up of the prison but also such a clever play on the way that the sun itself falls aslant in bars--the rose wind like a pink wind, but also one that has risen--very sensual --all that thunder and rain business (ha!) but also very naturalistic --this is something that perhaps spending time outside gives you a gift for--all those naturalistic lines are very beautiful--the end almost startling--we don't know when those tectonic plates will shift--not sure if that's what you meant here--but there is kind of a shift of psychology at the end, for me at least --where the you takes on the shape of the remembered as well as the current and coming. I am typing on my ipad here without glasses and so although I know there is a fair amount of typonese, I know you'll get my drift and won't try to edit (or lose) as is my wont. k.

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    1. pS--there is also always, for me, the subtle play of morning and mourning, which is kind of strengthened here with the last day. But of course I agree with Kerry-the poem is just beautiful on a perfectly non-under-layer level--a kind of deep thankfulness with the rue. k.

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    2. I meant--agree with Kerry that the poem was just beautiful as an aubade. k.

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    3. Thank you, K. I appreciate you being so coherent on your infernal device--I followed every word.;_) I do feel there is a sway here of new and old, life and leaving, as there seems to be for me in all things these days--what seems a lack of certainty becomes the new rule set, and vice versa--some of that is aging, and some of that is thinking, perhaps--or just general confusion. :P Thanks so much for all you find in my work, K--I always love reading your responses.

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  3. I agree with everything Kerry said. It's gorgeous. For some reason, "a place where the outside comes in" just got me. If I had read your true work of art here before i wrote mine, I'd have turned the computer off and taken up knitting. This is splendid, hedge.

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  4. ps--one of my lines is 7 syllables, so we are rebel girlz together!

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    1. "Rebel Rebel you tore your form! /rebel rebel your hair is shorn"--or mine is anyway, after reading yours. Thanks, Shay.

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  5. Love the music of your words...it always there whatever you're writing...~ love the transition of refrain 'morning of my last day' with new meanings...~ inspiring, evocative poem

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  6. I felt the morning Light here as if I were in the Hopper listening to Cat Stevens' "Morning Has Broken, Like the First Morning" and the last. A rose wind blows. Scars lace. Enough said.
    Thank you.

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  7. A first... I love Hopper.. (it must be a Hopper painting or?) ,, then the creative use, with subtle change of the refrain... really drive the hole thing forward in a great way. Also the repetitions in the first stanza drives the poem forth... A really lovely and sad poem

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  8. Beautifully penned and I love the subtle changes in the refrain. I especially love . . . where blue sky of invisible moon blankets a raised lacework of scars. On the morning of my last day
    you're a rose wind with too much to say.

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  9. nice....hopper does some amazing art....so you caught my eye first...
    serious stunning imagery in this...the saw sun...runes on the back...blanket of scars....i like the freedom you found in your refrain as well...i am a fan of breaking form to fit the poem, so...ha....

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  10. Word choices are exquisite Joy - saw sun that cuts through the bars, rose wind, blankets a raised lacework of scars. Subtle change in the refrain works so well ~ I believe the form is secondary if we missed a syllable or two ~ Happy Sunday ~

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  11. sigh. "the saw sun that cuts through the bars"... ~

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  12. I read this over and over. Truly lovely, Hedge.

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  13. Beautiful read - gives you shivers the first time, tingles the second, and a deep sense of presence after. Thank you.

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  14. this is so beautiful, and i think, or i read it anyway, as an aubade, too. good-bye, dear. love, love it.

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  15. I especially love "my foxfire harp in the dawn"......and too many other lovely word clusters to mention....so beautiful. Wonderful form!

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  16. Sorry my earlier comment got lost - An astonishing poem, a sort of aubade of the insomniac for the last day, or to the paramour who waits just beyond that morning. Or is that last day, and thus a love song to that moment, that passing. In a sense that may be what every poem ultimately addresses. The refrain is bone needle that weaves a life's tapestry of makings. Great stuff, Hedge.

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    1. Thanks,B. Really enjoying your recent series revisiting Columcille--beware of the jotuns.You are far from the land of soft sea and palms.

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  17. Beautiful. I adore reading the comments to your poems - I learn so much from them. I should learn to type my reaction first though as I get a bit intimidated ;) I love, adore, Hopper and this so reminds me of the Outer Banks where the "outside comes in" (sea breeze, sand - it just invites itself in) and the "morning of the last day" is a sad thing - I just never want to leave.

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  18. Joy Ann, you did a splendid job with the form. Your words fit the Hopper painting perfectly.

    Pamela
    p.s. we will have to chat on fb, possibly this evening. I am sleeping less and less hours, and it is wearing me out.

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  19. I especially enjoy your transition between first and second stanzas. My foxfire harp in the dawn is exquisite! A beautifully completed circle here.

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