Saturday, August 21, 2021

Windfall

 


 Windfall
 
 
 
Fill my glass
and let it be. The night 
moves over the unsodded graves
unquiet between
the roadhouse and road,
seventeen mounds
to home seven sins,
my vanities' bones,
my castaway loves, my old
car-killed cats.
 
Fill my glass
and let it come
at the end of the sky
when the broad brass sun
sets aslant on black apples
wind threw to ground, on
the last summer moths fluttering down,
warming them ripe for the locust's hall
with autumn's endings
packing the rows.
 
Fill my glass;
half empty is full. Let it be
as I drowse on the lawn,
sweet shattered moths and
brown thrushes for company, my
sore eyes wrapped with
a bandage of stars, peace
spilling into the void
where understanding
has flown.
 
 
 

 
 

August 2021
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


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Images: Apples, Jug, Irridescent Glass, © Paul Gauguin  Public Domain Manipulated.
Night Hill  © Andrea Kowch All Rights Reserved   Fair Use
Photograph of cat and wineglass from Sunday Muse, artist unknown. Fair Use


 

16 comments:

  1. You made me tear up with this one, dear BFF. That middle stanza is AMAZING. I love the care you have taken with the shape of the poem, and the way each stanza begins--cohesive but not exactly repeated. You are a past master at incorporating nature into your poems as metaphors or simply as what they are, and the "locust's hall" brings an echo of some old-gods underworld. What a pleasure to read.

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  2. I like your command of the written word. I really like the idea of a graveyard for those castoff things that we choose to visit from time to time:
    "unquiet between
    the roadhouse and road,
    seventeen mounds
    to home..."

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  3. Beautiful! The images swirl before the eyes!

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  4. Gorgeous! I feel that this is a poem to be read just as the embers fade near a backyard fire pit (wishing I had one now 🤓). There's a sense of returning parts of life with thanks while conjuring new ones. Shivery, contemplative, and perfect.

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  5. Everything about this poem is lovely Joy; it is soft and wistful with pieces of nature all gathered into each stanza. I love the refrain that goes so well with the image. I do love your added images too. They are a beautiful addition to the sentiments that float here like a vapor of heartfelt feelings. It is always wonderful to have you join us at the Muse my friend. Your poetry is deep, striking, and truly gorgeous!!!

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  6. Beautifully melancholy, and achingly deep. Great piece! Fill my glass — I toast you!

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  7. Wow, Joy, this is just stellar. SO beautiful, i read it with an ache in my heart.

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  8. A full glass is all of it, the immensity of a vision and its ruin. Such are windfalls now and you cashier it all. Your ekphrasic mastery always astonishes, Hedge, and putting the image at the end allows the poetry to prove it.

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  9. Beautiful vignettes of day endings resonating throughtout. Bravo

    Good Sunday

    Much❤love

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  10. There is a peaceful lulling rhythm here, which is a lovely place to be. I love sore eyes bandaged with stars ~~~ sigh.

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  11. Wonderful. Can't add to what has already been said, save to say this was magnificent to read.

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  12. So beautiful. The glass feels like a mystic holding life and pouring it out in splashes of memories. I truly can't choose a favorite line.

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  13. "sore eyes wrapped with
    a bandage of stars, peace
    spilling into the void
    where understanding
    has flown."

    these last lines feel like they belong to some kind of japanese death poem, the zen approach to all endings, a gracefulness, and a gratefulness, and a softly spoken regret. every stanze has this weight, balanced with it. very well written joy, always a pleasure to read you poems!

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  14. "my vanities' bones, my castaway loves, my old / car-killed cats." - awesome. And this is top-drawer: "my / sore eyes wrapped with / a bandage of stars" Just wonderful. The invitation to drink one's sorrows, losses, understanding, but then you hold us at the brink, don't choose the easy answers.

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  15. bandage of stars - that whole stanza as Phillip notes - superb ~

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