Bright Helmstone
Held by the thumb of heaven,
stars pressed upon our brows,
a rising mist, a whim of air,
where
are we now;
where
do we go?
You, my bright helmstone
set years in tarnish and blood
now white ice-melt flood over cloud-snow--
a seeing:
your scarlet turns.
A seeing:
what's left can't burn.
Scattered pointillist angels or bats
dipped in cerulean sea,
wings wetter than tears,
what
will become of we;
what
will become of me?
Does it matter now, when
at last I have hold of your hands,
stars are tied round us in bands
and your eyes
have found peace;
this dream
has found peace?
~April 2015
posted for real toads
Challenge: Seeing Stars
Karin Gustafson (ManicDDaily) asks us to look at the world with telescope eyes and find stars. Fortuitously, I woke up this morning with stars in my ears, and set them down, without much polish, here.
Just realized this is my thousandth post here at VE--kind of glad it was this poem, sent in a dream--thanks to everyone who has voyaged with me
Image: Dust and the Helix Nebula, viewed from the Spitzer Space Telescope at NASA.gov
This is really beautifully structured. And, incredibly lovely.
ReplyDeleteYou ask these age-old questions which continue to confound us, though we deem ourselves 'modern man'. Though the subject may be weighty, the poem lifts the reader along the weightless lines, as if we can transcend the concerns of every day.
ReplyDeletewhat's left can't burn...
Hey Joy--polished enough I think--and it is very odd, but I can clearly hear your voice reading this. It really feels like a love poem for the aging to me-- that gratitude of late love, and the trepidation at its possible (certain) passing--that is a very beautiful kind of love, though tormented in its way too--all reflected here--the rhyme and music are beautiful and many striking images-- the pointillist angels --great picture of stars--and the bats--well--they are out there, but certainly figures of night, and I can imagine them whipping around a face wetly--very striking and memorable. I kind of went with this prompt in a bit of a cheap way, as I knew I couldn't write a more profound star poem--of the type I've been reading--on the fly-- this is wonderful. k.
ReplyDeleteI love the wonder here and the repeating structure. Sans polish, it's still damn fine.
ReplyDeleteI'm with Buddah and was about to mention the cycling of repetition - it really works, Hedge. Great star work here! :)
ReplyDeleteOh my goodness, this is so incredibly beautiful, it dazzles me. I love the questions and the way you wove those words is just magical. Exquisite writing, Hedge. Truly.
ReplyDeletewonderful last stanza... summed up brilliantly
ReplyDeleteOh, man. "a whim of air" is fantastic. this is gorgeous.
ReplyDeleteThis is beautiful, Joy. I love it.
ReplyDeleteAbsolutely remarkable!! :D
ReplyDeletewww.adashofsunny.com
I am dazzled by your brilliance~ I love the questions and how your draw us in.
ReplyDeleteAs soon as the "stars pressed" in to our foreheads I felt like my whole self was being decorated by the beauty you here describe. Very well done.
ReplyDeleteAmazing how eye-like the photo of that Helix Nebula is, seeming to stare at us out of the aeons. And we can only stare back, asking our age-old questions. I see toward the end of your poem a band of stars around a human heart....
ReplyDeleteThanks, Mark. Very much so--this is full of a lot of the unclarified and the abstract, but as dreams perversely can be, also reliving and replacing what is most reviving within our secret hearts. Very much enjoyed your reading of Ashberry.
DeleteThe idea of "wings wetter than tears" made gasp. What fluids do they contain? How heavy are the wings now? Is flight possible?
ReplyDelete"Held by the thumb of heaven," It seems like a perilous hold, but yet the universe is the palm we are cradled in. Gorgeous, moving...It gives the night sky even more wonder.
ReplyDeletePicking up on the last sentence of Mark's comment, I feel a surgent hope here: affirmation and renewal and -- what -- serenity in the gift of these stars. Do dreams mine deeper and deeper into strata we write, occasionally finding a lode of blessing amid the bane? The helmstone here is alchemical in my reading, the philosopher's load (ha ha) or toad, "set years in tarnish and blood," now "white," become "a seeing." The blind eye that sees vastly inward? Whatever that is, I'll have what the dream poured in your horn that day.
ReplyDeleteThanks B. Aging is a long process of making peace. I know the pic is like an eye, but also imagine it as a gem, one set in the celestial hippy headband of peace and love. ;_) Thanks for reading--thinking of you and your cousin with best energy.
DeleteHappy 1000th post! This is filled with music and magic... "stars are tied round us in bands" ... I want to live there.
ReplyDeletean "M" in the old roman counting, where there was no zero. a fine pen, and as others noted, a sense of hope. thanks for your insightful visits, where I always find a new way to see, because of where you point ~
ReplyDelete