Friday, July 15, 2016

Raven Dream


Raven Dream






Raven reels in raucous black for the sundown sky
before I dream my crippled dog is somehow young,
can run, that love poured out in sand grows palms
and fish, that slickened cogs grating off the true
can still be grasped and purpose given back. 

I sleepwalk down to the druid's obsidian wood. An
earth-glass pool's a window for that other wind
of pomegranate and pine ruffling yellowed lace;
by a twist of shattered light it reflects a smile
I knew in another time another place.

Raven swells in circled sky on lintel'd wings
pulling a wire on which we both are hung,
glass beads that slide together whole and touch.
The ring of our collision in midair
is unmakeable by one but not for both.



~July 2016







posted for      real toads







(which I have failed miserably--this being a little over twice her required word count--sorry)
















Image: Big Raven, 1931 by Emily Carr, pubic domain, manipulated









14 comments:

  1. Confession: I never count the words.

    This is something special. I felt that first stanza in my breathless bones.

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  2. This is so perfect it could not be one word less. I read, amazed at the words you plucked and strung so beautifully.

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  3. A wonderful rush of swirling images.
    Anna :o]

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  4. I feel you have captured that magic essence of the Raven, it's spirit and aged wisdom... (Somehow I expected you to pick the raven) - such perfect rhythm and alloterative qualities... No it could not be shorter.

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  5. The first stanza is especially wonderful, but the whole poem is too, and the end--there is something so sad in that--hard to make a salvation for two, maybe impossible. Anyway, wonderful rhythm and a sense of chained rhyme going on. I, of course, especially like the dream of the dog grown young, and the ungraspable cogs of the true--there is a kind of echo of all of being cogs in some unstoppable wheel there. Thanks. k.

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    1. I'm afraid I wasn't very successful, apparently, on the last line--I meant the opposite of your conclusion--that the sound of two beads clicking together could not be made by only one bead, that there was a music in unity that separation doesn't know. I will have to see at some point if I can rework it to be clearer. Thanks

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    2. Hi Joy, I think it was my comment that was probably incoherent, or focused on maybe my own predilections. I understood that both together have to make the sound, and the image of them being suspended on that line in the air is clear. I think it was the phrase "for both" that led me to think of some work (sound) done by two, but the result not favoring the two. I tend to think of couples, I suppose, and how they do collide sometimes and also just touch, and both are needed for the ring--but how one is often promoted and the other left behind, and I think society can be that way too. But I'm guessing that my mind's movement in that direction could have been independent of the poem-- because the "whole and touch" line has a kind of gentleness to it that I don't think I focused on last reading as much or in a very clear way. That line reads in a lovely way--k.

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    3. ah. your reply to K's comment clarifies. What if you just deleted "but not for both"?...

      first and LAST time I will ever think of editing your pieces... please forgive me.

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    4. Cutting is usually a good idea, M--I find it very hard to do, too, which means I need to even more, I'm sure. I will let it sit a bit and come back to it with a fresh head and see if that's the answer--thanks for your input--and yours also, Karin.

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  6. This piece is so rich and diverse in the images it offers the reader. The presence of the raven pervades. I especially like your subtle use of alliteration, which ties the keywords together.

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  7. What a dream! The images invoked are wonderful!

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  8. One-winged birds cannot fly but two can, together. At this stage of life, so much seems halved or reduced, but thank Goddess (and ravens) for dreams, whether waking or the night time variety. A little hope, a little renewal, makes it possible to keep moving on this death march we all are on.

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  9. Sorry I missed this. Shakespeare's deepest moments were all dreadful--verbal concuspience plunging into the abyss of nothing -- the witch's trappings in the dream are all here, it is a proscenium, but what if the deep end is voided by the real witch? Who is playing who here? Does dreamer and paramour delight the black self beyond whatever we once called safe and known? And what crossroad must the humane and the dead share? Dunno, but the clarity here is terrifying. Deep end, big kid stuff. Writing that costs--it keeps it very difficult, which I suppose is where the gift is happiest.

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    1. Thanks for the read, B. I found the image rather sinister--as of course, ravens can be in their black-winged way--yet what happens when we are one with the void that suspends itself above/below, and holds us like beads on a wire, pretties the magpie has collected--I like to think of that resonance, a silver bellish sort of ring, that two beads, whole and separate, might make when they collide together as our poor efforts at jointure and affinity amid such chaos and dark--and somehow they are quite a solace, all things considered.

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