Glass Of Darkness
I see the tall glass of darkness
putting out a pot of cinders and ash
where too many cooks have spoiled
the serenade, sweet high song
of sun's guilt evening
to the kicking horse
that must be shot
before it can be free.
I sing along, blind in
this bare attic, but every note
that jumps in my throat
lies, dropping bloodless on the
broken map where cities blur
like stars whose cream light curdles
in a dead sky of greysmoke ghosts;
where nothing is ever free.
But I can't stop.
They say every skull will sing
if the wind blows
just right.
January 2025
posted for Word Garden Word List
Images:San Francisco, 1906 post-earthquake © The Atlantic, archives
The Penitent Magdelen ca 1640, Georges De La Tour Public Domain
Wow. I thought the horse having to be shot before it could be free was surely the best line in your poem until I got to the song that "jumps" in the throat and then that scalding final stanza. This is the nightmare we are currently living and I just don't know what the ending of it all will be, but your poem surely does express this mess we're in.
ReplyDeleteIt is a privilege to read your poems, Joy, so worth waiting for. I, too, was struck by the horse needing to be shot to be free. The whole poem just sings - and so powerfully.
ReplyDeleteSearing. That as a nation we continue to fall for grifters - that the lesson of Huck Finn's Duke and King continues to fall on deaf eyes (so to speak) - we drink that "tall glass of darkness", we stoke that tower of ash. we worship it, just so we can hear the dirge offered by that whistling skull.
ReplyDeleteYou have so brilliantly, poetically written about where we find ourselves in the present writing dark history. Each day we live in trauma response. I am grateful for those who help me through it.
ReplyDeleteWow, this is dark, evocative and outstanding. Your imagery is perfectly effective.
ReplyDeleteMaybe a dead breeze chatters fleshless teeth but I suspect that's highwater mark for the next poetry and someone -- you, me, the tribe living or yet to come -- has to learn how to whistle the serenade to the busted kazoo who channels that "tall glass of darkness." A fine feral infernal from the rustling disquiet Hedge.
ReplyDelete"sweet high song
ReplyDeleteof sun's guilt evening
to the kicking horse
that must be shot
before it can be free."
These lines, like the whole poem, is transfixing, piercing.
*are
DeleteDamn. This is top drawer: "They say every skull will sing / if the wind blows /just right"
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful poem - so much atmosphere and superb imagery - Jae
ReplyDelete