Friday, April 12, 2019

Sea Trash





Sea Trash




You've never known you carried

that force
which breaks the idea's skin
with no time for
an aftertaste
neither regret
nor understanding;

that you made love

 a leaf lightly spinning
already dead but flying
laughing to be
no longer itself
only something falling
into the old gods' wide arms;

that the moment they were born
your words were

my  million separate siblings
fluttering, full from eating light
then put to fire's smoking
neither regret
nor understanding
for something changed and burning:

a life you never saw
that broke the brown wren's shell.

And now

sweet noise and dust-light sparkles
sea trash in the soft salt tide
of heartsblood oceans,
bobbing from here
to gone.



 April 2019







for my dear friend Shay's final Fireblossom Friday, where she asks us to "write about love for someone who does not know you love them."






Images: both Untitled, by Zladislav Beksinksi via internet. Fair Use.



20 comments:

  1. Joy, there is not another poetic voice quite like yours. This moved me to tears for all the shades of light and dark it spills across the page.

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    1. Thanks, Kerry. I am glad you found something here.

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  2. Oh dear BFF. I would have felt pretty darn bereft if you had not appeared on my final FBF, but here you are! I know you don't feel the Muse much these days, but this is marvelous and i am so happy at the chance to read your words once again. Your description of the leaves "full from eating light" and "laughing to be no longer itself" is pure Hedgewitch and describes things in a poetic way that ordinary language couldn't convey in a thousand pages. This poem both lifts and breaks the heart. Thank you so much for being part of today, dear friend.

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    1. Yes, if poetry can't do more than 'ordinary language,' it's not poetry, is it? Thank you dear friend, for being there through it all for me.

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  3. Very beautifully written! I love the imagery and the love for words! Sad and lovely.

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  4. A truly love this poem. The last stanza is tremendous in meaning, loss, and love.

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  5. Oh Joy, no one writes like you do. You and Shay are amazing. This poem is deep and beautiful and I so love reading you again. Take care, my friend.

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  6. Yes, I can say with the others, no one writes like you. This one breaks me in the swells of its movement. Love's pain is like no other.

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  7. So beautifully woven, so sadly resigned. I echo what the others have said.

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  8. I adore this poem, Joy! Reading it made me feel like that ‘leaf lightly spinning’. I especially love the lines:
    ‘my million separate siblings
    fluttering, full from eating light
    then put to fire's smoking’
    and
    ‘sea trash in the soft salt tide
    of heartsblood oceans,
    bobbing from here
    to gone.’

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  9. The poem unscrolls askant, singing of love in an untranslatable foreign language, all of a distance, where surface and depth are elements read differently -- like an other, one who might have been a Beloved in another life, carrying "that force /which breaks the idea's skin / with no time for / an aftertaste / neither regret ..." And who make love like "a leaf lightly spinning / already dead but flying / laughing to be / no longer itself / only something falling / into the old gods' wide arms." Fatefully wrong and wronging. Not to repeat back the entire poem, but the lysis that follows, the line of sea trash at the shore bobs with "sweet noise and dust-light sparkles" "and is gone" -- evanescent as it is hollow, like a love that never was. I missed completely FB's directive in the prompt that the poem should be about one who does not know the speaker loves them," but if all poetry is love poetry on one order or another, then having and getting and losing and never fulfilling are all of the same saline swash. Back to your poem and to paraphrase Wendell Berry, even in darkness how the light dances.

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    1. I suppose love not returned is always hollow, a reflection rather than an interaction. But perhaps in another life, indeed it could be different. We take our goods to market, so to speak, and it seems have no control over who decides to take them home for nourishment. Ah well, it is what it is, like everything else that flickers and often deceives in the darkened cathedral. Thanks, B.

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  10. The vision this brings is absolutely breathtaking!

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  11. There is so much hope in that leaf, dead but refusing to give up on living just yet. Sometimes, life and love are a mixture of determination and stubbornness and a willingness to take what we can get... while we stand "bobbing [or spinning] from here / to gone."

    I've so missed your words, my dearest Joy.

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  12. Thank you dear heart. I miss my words too, but I always love to see what you make of them, as you always imbue them with your own shiny fighting spirit. Thinking of you always with all the best vibes.

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  13. Oh damn. That's just... too good.

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  14. a leaf lightly spinning
    already dead but flying
    laughing to be
    no longer itself
    only something falling
    into the old gods' wide arms;

    laughing no longer to be itself...love that so...bkm

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  15. for sure I thought I had commented before, but evidently my brain didn't make my fingers type.

    I can sense the smoke, the offering to the old gods who themselves are smoke, as we are or soon will be.

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"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats