Tuesday, October 25, 2011

The Dawn Singer

The Dawn Singer

The wind is old
in the rose coloured country
where I walk with you towards the dawn
where we drink of a cup
that never was
that brings no loss
that swallows pain
all remembrance 
redone, remade anew.

You sing to me
in a soft foreign tongue
I used to know before being born,
full of rolled r’s and ocean hushes.
Your white skin pearls and uncurls
a parchment of promise, your hands
outline my wants, full of birds and forests
gods and devils, angels and skinwalkers
and the long fall down Eden’s well.

Nothing could be as sweet as
this dream of it, of your palms
under my chin lifting
my face to your eyes,
your voice in my ear a touch
itself, deep cobalt echo of
a distant windrung chime,
our fingertips feathering  
to read the tale marked in braille.

Your eyes of moon;
how their light rips
against the black,
dawn songs sung
above the ears’ range
only in the choirbox
of my heart.

October 2011

Photo: The Rose Coloured Country, by Petteri Sulonen 
Thanks Petteri, both for the use of the image,
and for choosing the phrase from the poem as title.
Petteri's blog, Come to think of it


  1. Oof! That knocked the wind right out of me... I want to follow the footsteps of this lover into the rose coloured country and beyond... Deeply moving and passionate write.

  2. We only listen in to these love-songs, the words, the poem being what's left of the the conversation, the tea, the kiss ... This so reminds me of my dream of the woman who sang water-oghams over me, sensible in a language I could not retrieve upon waking, gone the way of the dream's fish-tail. So much prehistory here, prelapsarian at least, an Atlantean age long lost where we once spoke fully from the heart of the mind. Maybe the Paramour is there to assist you with the unfamilar gills ... whatever, it's water music to me. Fine job H; quintessential poetry.- Brendan

  3. This is just gorgeous. The second stanza is my favorite, but it is a beautiful whole. I thought you threw that bar in the ocean. Now I see you held on to it, for your own sinister purposes. Just wait til I come back with a ladder...

  4. Lovely and evocative. I especially like "parchment of promise", "angels and skinwalkers", and "our fingertips feathering / to read the tale marked in braille".

    Your last stanza can stand on its own.

  5. You create an entire sublime universe here, both intimate and vast. A dream of home where the language is a form of love sung into you. It is as awe inspiring as the dawn I witness here on the mountain. I've never read a poem that has thundered into me emotionally and spiritually as much as yours does. I pledge to love your inner paramour poems until I cannot love anymore. Do I kneel down? I’ve never pledged undying love to poetry before. :)

  6. awww...in the choirbox of my heart....what a tender close...reading the story in braile is a great touch as well...intimate...you leave me all warm with your song today hedge...big smiles..

  7. Thanks all.

    @Anna: I'm glad you can find my love poems to the IP palatable and there's something about dawn--a time of old enchantments, but no need for pledges, dear. Your enjoyment is what its all about.

    @FB: these dreams...go on when I close my eyes/every second of the night/I live another life...yes?

    @B: The cambion fish-tailed goat swims without gills, and so can't dive as deeply, but finds the water of dreams just as sweet. Thanks for reading, in whatever ogham works best.

  8. This is breathtakingly beautiful, Joy. It is stunning. Loved every GLORIOUS word and line. Whew!

  9. So tender, sweet, aching. The first two lines only start the journey through delicious language: white skin pearls . . . cobalt echo . . . choirbox / of my heart. The lines after your hands outline my wants bring to mind the yin and yang of complementary opposites, the whole of who you are, and what you want, and this dream of the lover who wants to give you you is very seductive indeed. Quite lovely and has put me in a mood, a good one.


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

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