|by Jenny Leslie|
The Winter Cabin
Ghosts on the floor,
crumpled at the fortieth failure,
tousled and tossed down to
decorate dead December.
They're waiting unread
in the winter cabin
where the plague has been
left of all their words;
only a snow-flaked feather
remembers the bluebirds
too small to save the world.
posted for real toads
for my friend Magaly
Thanks to Jenny Leslie for the kind use of her image.
Seems we both saw that cabin as a writer's final destination, the end of the poem, the letter not finished. All the ghostly drafts, aiming for a revision that never quite finds its wing. And as you write, small matter, for what those wings could bear could not bear also the world's unfinished words. Wonderfully wrought, like the snowflake of wonder it bears.ReplyDelete
This is the song of every stillborn tale... There are characters in my head (and on pieces of paper) holding a candle high for your poem and chanting the words.ReplyDelete
Love the imagery, especially what I see in the first stanza... it rips at the heart.
There are so many "if only"s whispered in the heart of this poem, and it breaks the heart to think what might have been, if the blue birds were successful.ReplyDelete
Stoppittttttttt! Hedge 114, Fireblossom 3 in today's Poetry War. This is so good I can't even do anything but threaten you with the bar, if i could reach it.ReplyDelete
You capture the desolation of the human spirit, that empty places so often exhibit. It is a chilling picture.ReplyDelete
Glad to see I'm not the only person here that feels that way towards December. Excellent work.ReplyDelete
Fortieth failure, days spent with no hope of a refund, the currency paid for a life ruled by a Muse long absent! Such a sad one this time, probably because it is so easily identified with. Well done!ReplyDelete
Oh WOW!!!!!!! Those bluebirds, too small to save the world. Brilliant, Hedge.ReplyDelete
My goodness the imagery here is so very striking!! Kudos!ReplyDelete
what does one do when the plague comes for an extended visit? Start making paper from the paper and let winter pass to the south.ReplyDelete
this poem has been sitting as an open tab on my browser for 3 days, and each time i return to read and comment, words seize up. you've reached into the blue ache of winter and found the remains of its heart, now black. ~ReplyDelete
So much and unfinished, and impossible to finish. The only thing in surplus this time of year is this accumulation of emptiness. Until tomorrow...ReplyDelete