I stumbled upon a line in an old journal that has stumped me. I’ve tried working with it and just haven’t found the right words or image. So I’m going to leave it here, a starting line of sorts, for anyone interested in creating something from it. If so, I’d like to see what you make of it. Perhaps the line isn’t mine to finish and instead belongs to one of you.
be gentle to the shadows who bear the weight of all we’ve lost
the skeletons dress in suits
and sit around the board table
crunching numbers and dreams
A bow is drawn slowly across
a single string, and a sound
like vapor stretches through
the air. The heart quickens,
and there is a tightness
in the chest like the skilled
fingers pressing down
just enough to elicit longing
only music can awaken.
Words fade to a whisper,
eyes close, and then the flash
of that day in the woods
when all was motionless
sight and sound until the first
drops of rain began to rattle
against the dry autumn leaves.
From Awaiting the Images
The sea shells scraped the bucket
as we walked slowly from the shore.
The shock of the burning sand
quickened our pace, and we skipped
on tiptoes to escape the pain in our feet.
At some point we turned and ran
back into the ocean where it seems
we have waited hours for the sun
to spill its fire into the surging sea.
* From Awaiting the Images
I followed my ghost
for hours last night,
wandering from year
to year, event to event,
watching the haunting
progression of someone
who will never be again.
we find religion in currency
then make currency religion.
pass the plate around
or put it on plastic –
onward christian soldiers
replaced with charging
for the kingdom, jets and all,
politics be damned –
bow down to the dollar
and you will be blessed.
prosperity for the preachers,
mega mortgages for the masses.
the tires on the borrowed car
cannot grasp the ice beneath
we slide spin turn accelerate
then the dull thud as the lincoln
crashes against a bank of snow
caroms unharmed across the lot
we laugh scream wild with life
until another drift launches us
somewhere we cannot imagine
* From Awaiting the Images
into the fire
out seared
beaten
battered
immersed in water
the afterglow surges
steams
spatters
enters again
unyielding
you are the looming gray cloud
overhead everywhere ominous
a reminder of rain too long absent
pour yourself onto this field
where cracks and lines trace
the years of scorching loss
i stand in your shade
a respite from an unyielding sun
waiting for your rushing flood
If you aren’t familiar with R.S. Thomas, then I invite you to read some of his work. I discovered his poetry in 1997 in a 20th Century British Poetry class in college, and I was immediately hooked.
Reflections – R.S. Thomas
The furies are at home
in the mirror; it is their address.
Even the clearest water,
if deep enough can drown.
Never think to surprise them.
Your face approaching ever
so friendly is the white flag
they ignore. There is no truce
with the furies. A mirror’s temperature
is always at zero. It is ice
in the veins. Its camera
is an X—ray. It is a chalice
held out to you in
silent communion, where gaspingly
you partake of a shifting
identity never your own.
Awaiting the Images 