Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Reposts for Christmas, #2

As this posts, dear readers, we will be somewhere in the wilds of Oklahoma, hiking with the dogs through a strange, season-less landscape hung between summer and winter, with warm sun and cold cold winds. And no internet. Hope that all who celebrate it enjoy Thanksgiving, and also this flashback from August 2013 which I've exhumed for your interim diversion. See you soon, and thanks again to everyone for your support.


The Farewell Book

"..High above the mast the moon
Rides clear of her mind and the waves make a refrain
Of this: that the snake has shed its skin upon
The floor. Go on through the darkness. The waves fly back.." 
~Wallace Stevens

I always keep the Book of Order
close by my chaos bed, my flag
at the masthead of longing, where
the brush of a half-numb hand upon 
its sleeping lover's cover lets me think
I'm not alone.

The Book has first and last page
but only a hole in the center, infinite,
secret, full of talismans, gauds and baubles,
wrack and whatnots, bones and blood,
astrolabes and artifacts of
someone else's life that is my own.
I sang out the genius from the cavity;
a wild shadow marked with your name.
I found for you the kiss long lost
in the dusty centrifuge, and made
the sickle wand that was
all the moon on a stick.

There atop the crease
you were born to lie,
to slither up and slide
your bendable spine into
the hammock of that crescent, to
murmur with flickering tongue

the language of mind to mind,
but when at last I put
my feet to the morning's board,
I felt only the pricking crackle of
a skin shed on the floor.

Still I go on, a lunatic singing apart
flying waves of darkness, hook'd
on a used moon and a hollow book.

~August 2013

originally posted for     real toads
Challenge: Fireblossom Friday:
 the book within the story within the poem 
 Fireblossom asks us to think of matryoshkas, to pick a favorite poem and nest it in a story (see above link for a more coherent exposition.) 

I've chosen not one but two of my favorite poems by Wallace Stevens to nest here, using various words and phrases from:

The Idea of Order at Key West
(text and reading by Stevens)


Photo © joyannjones 2013

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Reposts for Christmas

Hello again dear readers. We are getting ready to go out of town, and I'm not quite ready or able to come out of my hole, but I feel strongly, as I read your poetry, that I should have something here for you to read in return until I get back. So, I am going to post an old poem once a week or so, not linked to any prompt, or with any expectations. Feel free to comment or not, read or not--just my attempt to give back to those of you whose work gives me so much comfort right now. Here is one from last June.

Incubus VIII

Untitled, by Zdzisław Beksiński

Incubus VIII
(Bloody Hell)

Hell is lonely without my demon--
my personal one, I mean, because
there's no shortage here of devils.
Basting on the liquid lava's lips,
I'm alone in brimstone sunscreen,
no ruby pitchfork's flip
when one side gets too burnt,
no serpent sapient tail to scale me,
just the brisk popping of my cookery.
I thought my demon knew there's no
vaccine for the maenad's bite, that
nothing says forever like damnation.
I was killing more than willing
to lie griddled on bloodred coals
and call it love; but I missed his
listening kiss in the hissing steam.
Hell is lonely, bloody
empty without my demon.
I thought this blistered blaze might power
his blade-heart's forge, and this hammer pain
might twin us bright as living never did
yet after the first in-twisting, after
first blood spilled
he disappeared
and that is Hell for you.
~June 2013
[ This was originally posted for       dVerse Poets, where Karin Gustafson (Manicddaily) challenged us to write of twins, twining, combining or uncombining. Though I thought I'd finished with him, as I've written many little scribbles about my twin the Incubus, still he seems to linger somewhere at the back of Hell's waiting room.  If you'd like to read the others in this series, you can find them  here.  ]


Sunday, November 2, 2014

Urge For Going


 Dear blog friends and readers, 


I believe I have come to the end of the trail here for awhile. 


Thanks for everything you have given me through your own creative gifts, and to the few who have stayed with me throughout this journey, through your most generous gift of all, consistently reading and giving me feedback on my poetry. I can never thank you enough for that.


If circumstances permit I will be back, and no matter how empty the chair, there will always be a candle burning for you and this place.









Image: Paul Gauguin's Chair, by Vincent Van Gogh