Saturday, November 28, 2020

In The Tank

 
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In The Tank
 
 
 
In the tank, watching
the last foam ascend,
no rockets from
this wet womb, nothing
left but the sinking
still

the spirit seed
warm-curled in rainsilk, is
a spark self-shielded,
a voice unheeded
untrained but turning, a
desire piercing

paper-dead husk
with green.
The birth cord was tangled,
the roots softly angled,
a woven squared circle
of sticky heartweb.

There in that secret
float of penumbra
I felt you move.
I felt myself
blowing, unwrapped and golden,
in the tears of the sun.

 
 November 2020
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 posted for
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Images: Artist and title unknown, manipulated,  via internet, Fair Use
Seedling  ©2017, joyannjones
 
 

12 comments:

  1. Beautiful as always. Just what wanted to read today. And the last stanza...

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  2. Dear Joy, sometimes all it takes is a spark, the desire ... a bit of golden sun. We will get there. Love the photo manipulation!!! Perfect.

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  3. This is deep and gorgeous Joy, but my favorite stanza is the second! What you did with the image is so cool!!

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  4. Sigh. Utterly gorgeous, especially your closing stanza. Just beautiful.

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  5. Love the way you shifted the image and the poem itself was a marvel of imagery.

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  6. So much amazing language birthed: "no rockets from / this wet womb" The in the shift from "in the tank" to being the vessel, the feeling of motion that kicked from the very first lines. We feel your golden light, even with "the woven squared circle" choking off lifeblood.

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  7. I love everything about this. I love "rainsilk". I love the persistence of life. I love the structure you have used and the rhymes. I love it all, dear BFF.

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  8. blowing, unwrapped and golden,
    in the tears of the sun.

    Beautiful close Joy! Must be cold in there to bring tears to the hot sun

    Hank

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  9. Beautiful... So many lines I love especially the second stanza and the ending.

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  10. Wonderful writing and I love the changed image.

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