Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Indoors


Indoors




As the long night passes over
tugging everything apart
with its rough spatulate fingers,
slapping back dreams
as if they were fits: hysterics
not visions;

chewing with windy teeth
at the logs on the hearth,
crackling their bark like bacon
shooting embers out like bullets
into the dark bitter smoke,

how I long to take
my wakefulness outdoors
into the flowing black air
that cleans without teasing,
that polishes stars to a dazzle
even fogged-over eyes can see.

Instead the murk and clouds
break the blood moon, 
white frost covers the lookout
and the enemy creeps in.





~April 2014









Image: Lunar Eclipse,  by Lloyd  Overcash via science@NASA






21 comments:

  1. Got lost in the beautiful words of your poem:) loved t!!

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  2. You are so good at creating details and images that no one else would think of, like the rough spatulate fingers and chewing with windy teeth. This sounds like cabin fever with a twist of nightmare. At least outdoors a person feels like there is room to run, even if running isn't really an option.

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  3. The art is in the actual, what the night really is while the moon goes bloody. Sometimes the poem is about the poem that couldn't be, is what resulted instead when its hour raged. Fine precision here, Hedge, unrelenting and unrequieted and most satisfactory for that. Witchy rock n roll, 100 proof.

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    1. Yes, it's about a lot of things that couldn't be, can't be, might have been but aren't, etc. Thanks, B.

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  4. did not get to see the blood moon actually....too many clouds...and you could have been taking about here with those wind teeth...it was vicious last night....the house shifting with the wind...the night air might have cleaned me good to cause it was like 30 at warm points...ha...

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  5. Hi Joy, this feels to me like that inward night - some call it depression--and sometimes it does in fact creep about a bit more at night and certainly on the inside. Many wonderful details here--that darkness savoring the fire like bacon--very good and the way it bullets things out--and the relief of outdoors, freshness--your tags sum it all up very well. Thanks. k.

    It could be a more human - third party predator--

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    1. Yes, I like the old word for it better though, melancholy-- that's exactly what it is, and also of course the other ultimate Enemy, the enemy of all the old, the newborn, the weak and the sickly, always creeping around waiting for its chance. Thanks k, for reading and for understanding so well, as always.

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  6. I think a witch did write this poem.

    I crept outside at about 2:30, my eyes half fogged over and saw the moon halfway in its eclipse--but not a trace of red.

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    1. I finally saw it about 6:30, Mark, after watching through clouds for hours earlier, then getting back up, and no red, but a beautiful harvest gold and so full and huge it looked like you could pick it--as in Jane Hewey's poem, High Fruit, which says it far better than I can:
      http://janehewey.wordpress.com/2014/04/14/high-fruit/

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    2. I agree, Jane's poem is beautiful.

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    3. Different maybe, but def. not better. I very much appreciate the appreciation, though. Thank you both.

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  7. Of course, projection is the key, I mean the moon cant really effect me . . .
    famous last words as this week has been a personal blood-red moon.
    If Armageddon is coming, I am armed but likely ineffective
    but after this reading and the expected inspiration, at least NOW
    I will be writing . . .

    white frost covers the lookout
    and the enemy creeps in.

    but he didn't notice
    because he was writing . . .

    with his eyes
    wide
    open


    best, Hedge

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    1. Thank you Arron--yes, the moon is just a rock, yet she somehow gets into our blood. So glad to hear that you will be writing--you've no idea how I've missed the challenges, the tonic, and the little thorns of your poetry.

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  8. How could a poet ignore the appearance of a blood moon in her backyard? This is an eerily beautiful lyrical poem, Hedge.

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  9. Absolutely wonderful.
    And after that, I become effusive...
    Luv, K

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  10. the opening line of the second stanza gave me actual goosebumps. (I'm trying to avoid the word "literal", like, ya know). this is less a compliment than self-serving egotism, but I'm pulling out that old chestnut to say, wish I had written that.

    and from your pen to mine, melancholy is more persistent than wisteria, having curled her tendrils into our borders and taken hold. she has a long reach. ~

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    1. Amen, brother. Thanks for getting it.

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  11. I am swept away by the action in this piece. It has me reeling with full-blown moon. The last stanza brings a tingle to my scalp. This is very effective writing. I admire your ability, Hedge. It's like your poetic voice is sourced by some inner geyser. I might know the enemy you speak of. very compelling.

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    1. Thanks jane--more of an inner geezer, I'm afraid. ;_) It was a beautiful moon, full of secrets--who could resist writing to it? I loved yours.

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  12. Just spectacularly beautiful! The third offers a glimpse of "release" but is sandwiched between three unrelenting and unforgiving stanzas. Such smooth elegant writing.

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