Four Hours
Four cold hours
far from dawn
I sit in
manipulated darkness
waiting to see
what will come lie down in
this coffin of a moment,
thieving the spray of rosemary from my hand.
I've followed
the spark
all my life
seen it birth and kindle
seen it flicker deep
in eyes dark-sweet as berries
when all other light
was taken
but there is
nothing in this roving
black behind the blindfold tonight
not a single reflection glancing bright
off the book of stone; only that absence
which is the certainty of death
its witchlight capricious as hope
with no thing fair about it.
Why have you
brought me here now
to such circular endings, to
this museum of
stolen seeds, false gods, burned
fields, raped children?
Four hours cold
hold too much
too many graves
too much
silence.
November 10 2024
posted for Word Garden Word List
Note: This includes words from both this word list and the previous one.
Images: Black Bowl, 1907 © George Seeley Public Domain
Curse the Darkness, ©Thomas Dodd Fair Use
This poem leaves me stunned, breathless, both amazed by it as a poem and gutted by its message. This is how this moment feels; you've hit it exactly in all of its darkness and lack of hope. I am especially struck by the "eyes dark-sweet as berries" and the searing question in the penultimate stanza. 3 a.m., both by the clock, by the years, and by the national situation has never been described in such accurate, awful, and somehow beautiful words.
ReplyDeleteFantastic, sobering writing, Joy. Our worst nightmare has arrived and it is just beginning.
ReplyDeleteI feel this so profoundly. It is grief, a place I know too well. I've lived in nightmares before, but never one like I'm entering now. I will do good things, not matter how small. Amazing writing.
ReplyDeleteThis! This is what my heart felt, and your poem has said so powerfully what I never could have. I always love your poetry Joy!
ReplyDeleteSuch an arresting poem - skilfully and expertly crafted- the dark images and feeling and story of the poem all link up effortlessly - Jae
ReplyDelete3 am, and just shy of 11:59 on the doomsday clock. that 'book of stone' weighs heavily.
ReplyDelete"Four hours cold/hold too much" -- Indeed they hold all the griefs of the world, like 4 a.m. in the morning and its hauntings. Like walking blindfolded in the darkness with "a spray of rosemary" (that's for remembrance) when all other light has gone out. One can't long for the dawn to come fast enough to escape "this coffin of a moment." So vivid, and brilliantly condensed imagery, Joy, you make it look easy, this teasing out of emotion from the depths of our soul.
ReplyDeleteYou have spoken for legions. There is no escape. The messages, depth, eloquence of your poetry stuns, Joy.
ReplyDeleteWhat rough beast indeed, slouches towards us, Bethlehem a smoking wasteland.
ReplyDelete