Friday, June 20, 2014

Octaves Under A Full Moon


Octaves Under A Full Moon





The moon hadn't come past the chimney yet
slow sailing the night like a laden ship.
An unquiet woman worked to forget
the line of a leg, the rock of a hip;
no rind's so empty as that of regret,
no cup so full into which it can't slip.
She drank, she sipped green leaves and December,
tried to forget, or hoped to remember

till the moon came over the chimney at last
till wind combed her hair from front to back
till night had its way with today, with the past.
the stars snuffed out, the clouds gone black,
the white hot spotlight marked over the grass
its honey and lamp oil, fancy not fact,
dust storm desire runs ravenous red
not to blow out the fire but flare it instead.



~June 2014








posted very late, a short ottava rima for Kerry's  Sunday Form Challenge: Yeats' Octaves

 at    real toads







 Images: Moonlight, The Old House, 1906, by Childe Hassam
Landscape of Ruins and Fire, 1914, by Felix Vallotton
Public domain via wikiart.org


19 comments:

  1. its a rather haunting melody in this joy...
    no rinds so empty as that of regret...how very true...and how empty it leaves you as well...great imagery of the moon...the slowness of time as she tries to forget...that whole first stanza is so full of feeling to me...

    hope your week is ending on a good note...smiles.

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  2. This is just superb, Hedge. There is a sense of drama to the scene under moonlight, and yet it is rather understated, felt in the emotional swelling of the breast and the tally of night elements in the second stanza. An instant favourite.. a poem like this should make you as famed and applauded as any American poet before you or of today.

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    1. PS. With the mention of green tea, I thought you might have written this with Hannah's prompt in mind too. I'm sure you could link it there today. This poem needs an audience.

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    2. Thank you so much, Kerry. Am still not a hundred per cent, so we'll see. I really appreciate your words--all the fame and applause I care for, really. ;_)

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  3. Very appropriate, since we just had a full moon (and a solstice tomorrow). The whole thing puts me in mind of a flame, flaring, dying, flickering, then going through them all again in sequence. And of course, there are more than one kind of 'flame".

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  4. Hi Joy--agree with all comments, especially Kerry. This is an especially beautiful one, and an instant favorite. Beautiful cadence, rhyme, internal rhyme and general sentiments and wisdom about both the passage of night and of time--but many great little touches--the line of the leg and the rock of the hip bringing in the ship's line and rock--the cup that runneth over that still has room for regret, the wind combing her hair which could be the night's hair as well as the moon's and the unquiet woman, and the front to back so great there--the way that one savors regret at a certain point simply because it is lively and flaring and passionate -- or a reminder of that--night having its way with today and the past is a great line too--having its way a particularly good phrase there--anyway, all good, wonderful. Great job. Agree with Kerry--I think people will come, but the poem does deserve a larger audience and you should link it all over the place. (It seems to me that you have repetition as well!) k.

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    1. Thanks, k. As always, you pick up so many of the pieces and enhance them with your feedback. I am still not up to doing a lot of visiting, so am reluctant to link very much, but we'll see.

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    2. Well understood. I am working crazily--I don't know how it has happened--on my job I mean--and if I get time to write at all get a little nervous linking, but then feel bad when no one visits! Ha. It is a lovely poem, so you should feel great satisfaction in that. k.

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  5. love this, just love it. that is all.

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  6. I have just sat down after another long day of learning how to come to terms with myself, my past and the general reconfiguration of any and al possible futures and I know as soon as I click that you will deliver a hit that not only inspires but also offers an insight into something that I already know that I should see right in front of me but am so far missing and here it is.

    The longest day of the year is one hour old and the blue/grey dawn is cool and calming but

    dust storm desire runs ravenous red
    not to blow out the fire but flare it instead.

    Thanks Hedge: my poetic pharmacist

    best

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  7. Gorgeous! I love it. I hope you feel better soon.

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  8. Welcome back, you've been missed ... Shaman(ess) songs address the entities behind the ailment. (Paracelsus called these demon deities "ens," and declared they were vapors of the mind). Night is balm for day-burns, dressing the wounds with the moon's liquid pour. (Though P. thought the moon was a precipitator of evils as well -- perhaps that recurrent desire.) But the bridge between physical ailment and soul-torment is one never crossed by imagination alone, nor are the words found there quite enough to suspire the old embering fire. Balm can sometimes be a gas thrown on flame. A wonderful elegiac creation here, Hedge, wholly sufficient in itself even if the actual torments haven't subsided. I've written reams about migraines and still suffer them badly; maybe the torment is meant for the production of more poems. Sure would be nice to think that shaman songs healed actual ills as well ... Again welcome back.

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    1. Thanks, B. It gets cold if you don;t occasionally ' suspire the embering fire'...even if failing breath on embers. The alchemy of spirit changes lots of dross to something if not gold, at least superior to the usual dirty paper.

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  9. This poem always opens windows for a spirit to feel the haunt of many emotions. Love this one-so well written and visually a painted landscape to dance through. Beautiful- in its contrast! Bravo, Hedge~

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  10. Another beauty in your moon series. Would love to see all your moon poems gathered together.

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    1. Gosh--it would have to be digital--my conscience couldn't stand killing that many trees. Thanks so much for your kind words, Mark. I have been out of it, but should get back out and about soon to see what you've been up to.Your poetry is not something I could ever enjoy reading with a fogged up brain.

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  11. brilliant couplet:

    no rind's so empty as that of regret,
    no cup so full into which it can't slip.

    I've naught to add, but you so adroitly *rocked* the form, making it support the flare, rather than damping it ~

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  12. Just came back to visit this one-- it really has a lovely music-- so well done and very accessible. Others are too (!) but this manages to be very dense with great imagery and music and yet is very easy to enter. I think there a dverse OLN is you wanted a bigger forum. I don't know that I'll link because I am too tired to comment much and I know you were feeling that way but this or any of the last poems-- the laying or the fever-- are awfully good. K.

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    1. Thanks for the encouragement, k. Yes, the other two are a bit less song-like, perhaps more convoluted. I'm glad you feel this one is approachable. AFA more readers, I linked at dVerse for years, and those who frequent the pub know where I am--of the many who raved about my work then, few have ever come to visit me since I left, and I am not equal to the numbers involved anyway. This blog began as purely an archive, as I think the poetry market is saturated enough with both talent and dross without my contributions ;_) though I do appreciate very much the people like yourself who enjoy my work enough to read and visit whether I am playing in the mostly social whirl or not. Thanks for your unflagging and generous support.

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