This the blog of a would-be poet. As often as I am able, I will post a new poem. I may post sonnets, Haiku, other forms of poetry, and also free verse. Along with each poem, I will post the piece of music from which I drew inspiration. I would make the request that you start the music before you begin reading the poem. Music and Poetry are so closely tied, I believe they are best experienced together, and I encourage you to listen and read at the same time.
I run through the dead, yellow hills,
the shade of the sun my guide.
My grey coat streaks between the white bleach trees,
the black and silver shavings giving relief,
blending me safe.
I am a free wolf.
Surrounded by smoking sand,
I gather with others to hunt.
Gleaned moisture steams from the ground.
All seems dry in the light.
We search between rocks for pools of relief
and seek marrow for our bones.
The fare is plenty, quickly earning distaste in abundance.
I crave after old lusts.
I remember the plenty of captivity,
the provision of my diligent masters;
I think nothing of the cages and pain
- only the meat I didn't hunt or request.
And I demanded rain.
As though thousands of fowl had flown over
and carried water on their wings,
so the ground caverned for the spilling.
Rot was the name of the land.
Oh, the memories one can find in a dream, the time you survive – an era in an hour
- a moment augmented through the night.
The pain you can’t feel is greater in the night in slumber the life you live seems no illusion.
You are Mother, Husband, Animal, Empty. You give life, you take it, you rape it apart.
When you wake it seems silly to tremble with fear, to weep with wonder or sadness.
The vision was more vivid than the living moment it questions.
I consider and ask myself which is worse: torture by day or trauma by night?
The end of the darkness in dreams is a death – myriads of deaths by each trail. The end of the days in a life bring Glory – the inheritance of the Wakeful.
Night is for sleeping, sleeping for Hell - a playtime for goblins of darkness.
Day is for sleepers, sleepers who chose night - may fight tenebrae with the sun.
Tucked behind the blossoms of the ash tree a canary flaps his fair yellow wings. Preening them, readying for his feast.
Landing on the beads of the pomegranate he swells and sings his love song, dropping his wings low to the ground.
The arced head of his mate peeks from the myrtle, the white breast and the browned coat gleaming. She only answers to this voice for she long searched and slowly decided.
Landing next to him, she gently preens him, tilting her head and eyeing him with a gleam. He lowers his head to the pulp beneath him, breaking through the skin and into the heart.
The red juice coats his throat in richness, and he offers the droplets on his beak. His mate accepts them with a ruffle of her feathers, rubbing his neb affectionately.
Chirping quietly, she flies to the ash, nestling in the roost of twine and blue ribbon. The petals of the orange rose are soft beneath her, and the warmth of her mate subdues.
Settling both, they sing together, night throwing shadows and luster, and they sleep as the dead.
All is quiet as I ready myself for the plunge, accepting the eye of the storm; a relief before the next wave crashes over me. This reprieve has become a familiar friend.
Permeated by the scent of pain, the taxing of my aching body, I ask the unforgivable question.
Why?
On the floor, curled into myself, a babe asking for comfort. Warmth flows out of me, a sea of heat, a stifling, choking hand.
Sucking in gasps, I lose myself. The beast has won my body, and it ravages.
Tearing through me, it eclipses my control. I can no longer stop my tears. Sobs shake my broken body.
It is this moment of abdication that I truly surrender. The suffering, though master of my body, loses my spirit. Even as I weep through the pain, I rejoice; this is not my permanent temple.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. One day, I will break free.
This is my soul music.
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I am frustratingly unable to give music for this partly because it was inspired by sections of several pieces, two of them composed/improvised by my fiancé. I will share those so that you may choose one (or all, as I did), if you so desire. If you read it once with each piece, you will understand, I hope, a different level of the poem.
Of this piece, it is the prelude which inspired - in fact, a particular 28 seconds of it:
I don't even know if you can access this one without a soundcloud account, but it was the original inspiration; the others were extensions.
Walking down the bloodless path, the man aimlessly searches for Truth. Frustrated by lack of foresight, he chooses his own way, drawn to fickle independence. Crashing through hedges, he ignores the ripping of his clothing and flesh. Coming upon the house of the Complacent, he takes his place among those who fear naught yet all.
He takes his taste of pleasures to spirit and body which are rich and temporary without the preservations of a Master. He fights for authority, false though it may be, and bloodlust rules his hand. He pays no attention to the bruises on Beauty nor cares for the crushing of Man. Without vindication, he buries his own soul in the darkness he had never sought.
He quickly possesses all he had wanted, and yet there is a gnawing hunger in his breast. He is aware of lack to his natural make-up, and comprehends the emptiness of all he has bought. The Truth is not here, he admits to himself, and stumbles from the door of his deception. Unsure where to begin his quest anew, he stands. Quiet.
In the stillness begins a transformation which had been nullified by the actions of his campaign. As though taken from himself, he rises above the earth, apart from it and yet preparing its fruition. No longer of man and yet completely a man, he is told of the Truth and given a Pursuit – an errand to find that which effects a desired depiction of the Great Union.
Letting his eyes wander over paths of many, he finds himself pointed toward one unexpected. The path is overgrown and the keeper eclipsed, but the Master submits that he wait. It is hard to remain still, but his Master fills the time with necessary instruction and guidance. He is on the brink of deserting hope when his gaze is captured by the running woman.
He sees her fall, her body naked and broken, grasping for an unseen gift. He turns to his Master, but He quietly shakes his head. No one help her until she asks. The man watches breathlessly as the woman weeps, unable to claim serenity. As she weeps so does the Master, and His crystal tears fall to the earth, kissing her face.
Professedly fallen, her tears come to an end, and her palms lift up for healing. Dressed anew in the stars, she looks up to the Master; all she had been was forgotten. As the Master takes her up, he establishes her with the Sky and gives her a purpose in that home. Mirrored from Redeemer and Body, the man and the woman a mortal berth employ.
Walking down the bloodless path, a crescent rose slips through her fingers. When the blossom contacts the ground, pearl petals burst apart in a rainbow of white. The yellow center’s powder scatters, leaving soft tears on the fair stems clothing. The woman continues her walk, mindless of the beauty she has lost. There are better gifts.
Entering the house of the Lustrous, the woman does not notice the grime under her feet. Her crimson dress, once a simple finery, is drawn downwards, made heavy by maquillage. The oils of the ground reach their fingers up, beginning the stain at her hem. The blackness creeps upward without her notice; she is too enticed by her freedoms to care. There are brighter gifts.
The woman has all she wants in this new age – wealth, promise, and glamour. She is powerful within herself, and she lusts after more, giving all and not caring for price. She sells herself without knowing it, trading her natural elegance for prestige. She gives away her ability to lend strength to others by grasping at what is unnatural. There are richer gifts.
After years of seeking supremacy, she discovers a lack in her seemingly perfect world. With all the prestige she has gained, those around her have given no honour. With all the allure she has come to possess, she has lost the natural graces she once held. The pledges she had deemed she deserved had been given her, and yet she hated them. There are superior gifts.
Realizing her own degradation, the woman chaotically seeks the path she once walked. She is broken and weeping, aimlessly thrashing through thorns and bristles. Her black dress is torn away in shreds, the sparkling jewel stones falling away in shards. She finally discovers the path, overgrown and uncared for, neglected by its caretaker. There were marked gifts.
Stumbling and falling to her knees, the heels of her palms scrape against the once green path. Blood is spilt and she cries out in desperation, wishing for the healing of her soul. She lies on the ground, spent and unable to go on, her body bruised, naked, and trembling. The strength she had once glorified had never been strength but only a façade of arrogance. There were false gifts.
Her eyes fall upon a sparkling vision of pearl petals, the golden tears still unfaded. She reaches out to seize the softness of the beauty she had once held, sure of the regaining, but when her hand contacts the bloom’s clothing, it withers at her touch, unable to bear her. Fully realizing her loss, the woman is tormented by her lack of wisdom and true strength. These were true gifts.
