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Re: Terreson's word hoard (4)


Trickster tale magical. Love the language and musicality of the telling. Such vivid moments -- the formation of that whale with its numinous eye, for example. This captures the iconic trickster as well or better than anything I've ever read of his doings.

Also read (just this moment for a second time but did not comment before)the "small ditties" -- not inconsequential at all, of course. Gorgeous, they pull at my 2nd chakra. The goddess is alive and magic is afoot.
Jun/22/2012, 11:32 am Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 
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Thank you for the comments, vkp. The poet perforce must always be the last to know if a poem works. But I cannot read the Trickster poem without all the Trickster lore I read at a certain time coming back. I absorbed it all, his character type too. I love the humorous way Native American oral tit tradition approaches him. Sure he is culture bringer and village gift giver. He is also the Foolish One.

About those ditties. Themes, it seems, that have come back my way more than once since then.

Thanks again.

Tere
Jun/22/2012, 4:20 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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This is so beautiful! I especially loved "She looked like an entire region, / one wide expanse of home," and really the whole stanza that preceded it. With it's geographical feel and mention of home it reminds me of that old saying "home is where the heart is" except was less cliche. emoticon
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Thank you, Magy, for the comment. About home, the home feeling, the sense of having home. Think on it hard enough and you realize you're dealing in the terms of a philosophical concept, perhaps even a new and unexplored branch of philosophy. (Said not entirely with tongue in cheek.) I mean what are questions of being and nothingness in the face of a question as central to meaning and value as the difference between feeling oneself a stranger in a strange land or a familiar to your environment and milieu? Being quite serious here.


Tere
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Tere's back !!! emoticon emoticon emoticon emoticon emoticon

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Yay!!!
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 emoticon
Jul/3/2012, 7:04 pm Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 
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I had completely forgotten about this thread. A few more poems and I'll let word hoard (4) go.

I'll resume with an all time favorite poem of mine. I got the idea from a Jacques Brel song. It's a love poem of sorts. It is about a late night spent with four young friends when I was 30 something. They were in their late teens.


Children of the Dawn

The chill rain
and the dark egg hour,
late night or early A.M.
much the same matter.
And no one to see them there,
no one spying on them,
looking through them in the way
dark age children are first
to become accustomed to.

Down by the lake, soaked through,
not much caring for where they've been,
already asking questions whose answers
may hold the key for them,
while sharing the secret codes,
the locked doors they've dared
and pressing into where
the rains have started to fall
in curtains of silver strings,
the lively beads strung in tandem
to the horse drawn dream.

The four of them, four young friends
coming out of dark egg origins
like mystical signatures,
and down by the green and spongy lakeside
where they've gone to feed the familiars,
the lake lawn residents,
the ducks, the ganders and the geese.
Holes in their shoes, sweaters soaked,
the autumn rain, the cold rain
sticking to their skin,
and the curled cups, the ringlets,
the strands of their wet hair.

To then close in like friends,
sharing all there is to share of
body warmth coming with friends
while they feed the fat birds standing
just away from them,
standing and hemming them closer.
And with the city's faint light shield
holding out the sky.
The closing space and orange glow
reflected on pale young faces.

And the four of them
looking like poppies then,
looking like thin stemmed poppies
growing in at angles by the road.
Which is when it comes home
these are children of the dawn.
The scarecrow children loose and lanky,
the simple cell yearning
already aching to make form into flesh,
the bright beauties, the tender corn.

Terreson
Aug/4/2012, 3:43 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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Re: Terreson's word hoard (4)


Sometimes a poem can come to you and you have no idea where it came from. Only, in a way, you know all too well, having experienced it in every strand of flesh, every organ, every cell.


In Dream Time
(For Laura and Robert)

Seeing the Sorrowful King
in the slanting rain,
the river run night much like
the closing cowl, or laid on cream,
and rising out of
cold's captivity just as
shaken songbirds start back
coming like friends;
when slope's frozen water runs
melt and fall free,
and the westerly wind comes
through to wrap the skin.

Or still seeing places left behind
in Earth Daughter's eyes,
the stranger grown, the gray glint
of her frightened eyes
after she's left his company
to darkly go dreaming,
darkly down dreaming,
her first flesh closely moving to,
dipping down into
the Mothering Deep, tellurian keep
where no king ever can go
and calling a claim, or combing for her
without her face turning away.
And where she would've gone for sure
bathing in the cure, the fetid scent
of an older woman's delta breath,
then reining in herself
in the cul de sac, the path
while holding her hand out over
the hungry lion's mouth.

And just as suddenly seeing her
come freely home again
like a holy half moon bending before
his river rilled steps,
or coming up over the rising tide
leaning across, bending into
the thrilling night's crest,
to intently ask for
a sad eyed son as if
he always has been her
lavender love, her brother.
And signing him the way
while lions sleep
and cedar sweep stirs
just before the straightening stem.

Terreson

Last edited by Terreson, Aug/5/2012, 12:31 pm
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Time to finish off word hoard (4), doing so with a prose poem.


First Sun, then Moon, then Earth

It feels as if the sun came first, as I stepped out of the dark egg night, and seeing me through the queasiness of unclear innocence. It is as if I was led along and shown the way from one mid-morning epiphany to the next. And maybe I would have stayed in the orbital swing of one solar hero or another, except that then it began to seem as if they were always falling in on themselves in the melt down manner, and that the sun would only be able to shine on what it sees. This is when it must have been that I began leaning into cooler places of deeper, verdant shade, and how it was I was taken up by the moon. First the full, next the old, and only then the new. And it was mostly on the slip of love's catch seeing me into each new morning. And I think I would have stayed there in a moon light's stream, except for then being taken into the moon's fourth order, or into the cold and dark cloister of her other side where every step becomes a ravage and a danger. It's when I finally learned to keep my eyes on the skyline shimmering just over the hills. It's when any moon child will learn to stay clear of the darker doorways that never let out with the inside and friendly light. And so I waited there on the ridgeline, waited with the slim hope that my familiar might find me. And it must have been then that she took me up, the earth round mother. I know it was because of the memory shooting past of the seastacks coming up as she called me home. First getting tethered to her side as she makes her way through space. Then lopping my legs like the great ancestral serpent, her first son, until I was burrowing in to her, looking for something to eat, and finally finding the tasty tendrils in the way she dreams when spread beneath the continuous tree. And I would have stayed there for sure, easily inching my way beneath her weight, except for the evening when she called me up into the fresh air. It was when she said she wanted to show herself to her best advantage as she went stepping along. And so she let me see into her inclinations as she went swaying through mood swings. And finally trusting the thing, sensing the indigo way at the center of her.

Terreson

Last edited by Terreson, Aug/5/2012, 12:32 pm
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Children of the Dawn

quote:

The chill rain
and the dark egg hour,
late night or early A.M.
much the same matter.
And no one to see them there,
no one spying on them,
looking through them in the way
dark age children are first
to become accustomed to.

Down by the lake, soaked through,
not much caring for where they've been,
already asking questions whose answers
may hold the key for them,
while sharing the secret codes,
the locked doors they've dared
and pressing into where
the rains have started to fall
in curtains of silver strings,
the lively beads strung in tandem
to the horse drawn dream.


The ending here is imagistic and pops out of the poem and makes me feel wet with the strings of rain, makes me long for the horse drawn dream.

quote:

The four of them, four young friends
coming out of dark egg origins
like mystical signatures,
and down by the green and spongy lakeside
where they've gone to feed the familiars,
the lake lawn residents,
the ducks, the ganders and the geese.
Holes in their shoes, sweaters soaked,
the autumn rain, the cold rain
sticking to their skin,
and the curled cups, the ringlets,
the strands of their wet hair.


The imagery in this strophe is so exquisite I cannot even select the one thing that makes it so. The magic of the poet to evoke something real and make it into an experience any reader -- just by reading the poem -- seems to have actually had, a place the reader would swear she had been, with people she surely once knew.

quote:

To then close in like friends,
sharing all there is to share of
body warmth coming with friends
while they feed the fat birds standing
just away from them,
standing and hemming them closer.
And with the city's faint light shield
holding out the sky.
The closing space and orange glow
reflected on pale young faces.


This moment of dawn – the purview of the young, who do not always know its beauty through their blithe laughter. But the poet, standing aside and watching – he knows.

And the four of them
looking like poppies then,
looking like thin stemmed poppies
growing in at angles by the road.
Which is when it comes home
these are children of the dawn.
The scarecrow children loose and lanky,
the simple cell yearning
already aching to make form into flesh,
the bright beauties, the tender corn.

So much about beginnings. This strophe, this whole poem, makes me ache a little remembering the poppy-stage. When everything is about “yearning /… aching to make form into flesh….” This poem makes form into flesh, it seems.
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Re: In Dream Time
Is the Sorrowful King trying to find his way to the girl with earth eyes, or is he just remembering when she wandered away...? The cold's captivity and the icy, wet, frozen imagery of early spring (I'm thinking with the songbirds there) remind me of Proserpina tales of woman going under the earth-- "mothering deep, Tellurian keep" is beautiful -- and reemerging ready for life, to give birth, to request a son. She does not realize how much he has suffered with her gone. He feels, it seems, both anguished and relieved at her return. He feels taken for granted -- "as if/ he had always been /her lavender love...."

All of this is heartrending, beautiful, finely drawn, earth-bound and ancient.
Aug/4/2012, 6:35 pm Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 
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Thank you for reading, vkp. Kind of you. My sense of the Dream Time thing is that the scene gets enacted, reenacted, almost ceremonially, regularly, cyclically, seasonally, what have you.

Tere
Aug/5/2012, 12:39 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
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hi Tere,

re: "Children of the Dawn," I get the sense these kids are poor, homeless or gypsies...
"looking through them in the way/dark age children are first/ to become accustomed to..."
"Holes in their shoes, sweaters soaked,"

Here they are imbued with an almost other-worldly beauty, "already aching to make form into flesh,/ the bright beauties, the tender corn."

So my impression is one of throw-away or latch-key kids presented as the narrator sees them, not through the filter of their impoverished circumstance but as pure spirit.

I agree with vkp, the imagery is exquisite,

Chris
Aug/9/2012, 8:39 am Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
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Thanks, Chris. I like your take. Kids are always throw aways when you think on it.

Tere
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Auguries

Baby's burning tonight,
baby's got to go.
Cheeks are hot,
telling it all,
but baby's got to go.
Kisses come home
even when she's gone,
it's what it feels like
when she comes and goes,
and you never know
when baby's got to go.

The way the wood burns blue,
woods burning blue,
must be the mistakes
the girl's got to make,
the shaky new
she's got to see herself through.

And so she runs as freely
as when she comes home.
And I want to see her through
all the way through
the facing changes,
all the tricks
all the people
will always play on her.

Baby's got to go I know.
And I wont be here
when she gets back again,
when she gets herself
back this way again.
When last night's ember
just the finger tips
to touch her cheeks
is her desire.

And it's on that high note
you hit and hold,
the single signature's
emotion coming home
when baby's got to go,
you got to let her go.

Tere
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Hi Tere,

The rhythms and repetitions in this poem give it a song-like quality, especially in the first and last stanzas. I like the title and can see an image of auguries burning blue, thanks to you.

Last edited by Katlin, Jan/4/2013, 10:22 pm
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Thanks for reading, Kat. Song like, yes. Damn hard to bring off are the tropes of a song lyric.

Tere
Jan/4/2013, 8:02 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 


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