Rising in The Fall
These are the leaves of my days
A small bundle of dry leaves I keep
Leaves over which I no longer weep,
They are too fragile.
My days jumble up.
Lattice of a mixed up
I try, to separate the colours
In neat compartments
Achieve an organic whole
Archive my soul.
The yellow flames mix with
Red embers of passion
Calm blue rationale tinged
With green obsession.
White fields of wonder
Drowning in saffron,
No I cannot separate
Facets of my heart
In cuboid compartments..
Netting the cube
Hoping each part adds
Yet retains the whole.
Ashes of dreams, old colours fade.
Pot pourri melds into slush,
The mush, I dread.
Sorrow is grease,
Lards up my head.
The incessant “Coo-coo-coo!”
Of a priapic bird
Demands melodies of joy
Must be heard.
But unheard plaintive tunes
Dredge up, endangering
The still morning chirps
Broken bird calls into
Where break waters dwell,
I, cavern dweller
Breathing from my mouth, am
Memorial urn of fragrant ashes
That lost their scent.
I sit quiet, yogi
Of passion’s discipline,
Sorting out tendrils
Threads of hope
From by loom of hell.
Morning is surreal
In its blossom and bloom
In its jaded jar,
Cold gold matté clay
Of fresh beginnings
Recycling old endings.
I have heard this song.
All my life.
I still can't catch the tune.
I still falter and speed up
At the wrong places,
I fold and bunch up,
Where I could have taken
The music pauses
To match my show.
I have let go youthful efforts
I let the eggs drop, gold encrusted
Diamond dripping Fabergé,
I stopped walking on eggshells.
Entropic eggs seed ground soil with calcium.
So let them break.
The souls of my feet are calloused
Sea shells and egg shells, sharp jagged mosaic tiles
Flatten into the curve of my soles.
I can handle this discomfort.
I peddle it…walking on water
Rattle on, skeletons and ghosts,
In open closets. You breed faith.
I collect the sharpest pebbles to examine under
Light, intrinsic to all reflective surfaces.
The logos in sharp shards of translucent beauty
Entrapped in amber hardness.
What makes walking
Perambulatory talk difficult
Is individual aspects of beauty,
That just won't fit
Neatly into each other.
You cannot net the soul
Nor take apart lattices of
Dry leaves, without destroying form.
But the shining sun caught
Through them is art
Pure beauty that blazes
Through broken hearts, thresholds,
Houses without doors.
It is not morning anymore
But my soul revisits dawn
To crack a little bit, crackling
The fire lit.
The day proceeds as it will
Tows the mundane
On sheer will.
I power through routines of existential pretence
Pretending what I do
Is terribly important.
Thick and heavy blinds drawn on dread
Non-existence also in the head.
My meaningless innards
Hide from myself
Except when I hear
Dirty dish water fracking, foaming,
Gurgling complaints down the drain.
The Coriolis force works
On air not water,
And it stops at the equator.
At 49, I am half way through.
Air shafts spin counter clockwise
And I scan the reversed arrow of time.
The afternoon heat is a nuns retreat.
I must now pay attention to it.
Every shimmering hazy surreal defeat.
Every cloying passion and pain in the
Annoying cuckoo's dream state notation.
Reading sheet music on refrain.
Not its own but another's pain.
These are the heavy chests
I obtain. At dusk.
I massage snowy Boroline from a dented green tube
White ointment on cracked heels and chapped palms.
Criss crossed with hairline capillary blood alms.
Psalms of Ruby light transverse my being,
As I hang my laundry
Against the riddling sun.
Twilight drains the sap
The honey from honeycombs
Delicious, drips through
I collect each delicious drop
To drink my fill
But I cannot separate
Honey from beeswax.
I can't isolate cause and effect.
Dripping from my palms
Sweet oil sugar balm
Glue from my glistening glial cells
The synapses of all connections
To revive and
Retain the whole.
The heart of the hive
Liquid gold love
Cannot be drained
Cannot be held alone.
People are broken honeycomb
Chambers of orchestra music.
Walking through the maze
Untuned music boxes
Boxed up feelings, all in a daze
They conduct each other.
Sometimes the notes
Spoken not sung.
Sometimes the song
Needs no words.
The chords echoing the
Hollows of each other's rib cages.
Evening tea is brewed, served up by me.
I am hostess and guest at this party for one.
I carry my broken cup
To the veranda
And the street lights flicker on.
A mockery of power on
The still sunlit veranda.
I try to read a few more pages of a book
The Light fades,
It's a designer project, end of the day.
The book has a certain fey appeal
But it holds no answer key to my soul.
I have been reading. Devouring whole,
Authorial intention. Psychic intervention,
Not sure if it syncs at all with the way
I want things to go, grow,
My worldview must show.
Even if it cannot sync with the Zeitgeist,
Even if it can.
Even if the plot lines
Aren't mine, but foreign.
Connections must be forged. Xenophobia overcome.
Savage atavism tamed.
I live through parallels.
Through interconnected threads.
The lattices that keep our Logos stable
The tetrahedral bonds
Of black ice, supercharged ionized hot water
uniquely suited for planetary atmosphere ...
Trees grow like syringes of oxygen
Introducing air bubbles
Into the veins of night, we are stargazing,
Slow suicide bags speeding up
The unspooling of our own DNA
As we dream journey back into dawn.
Fresh morning to make amends.
Put the coffee on.
Settle into the pain.
Settle down, with an old opiate, a cosy rerun
An easy on the eye sitcom.
The shadows of the past deflected neatly.
We go on.
We must find temporary fixes
Instant Nirvana customised remixes,
To go on.
Keep on, keening and keeping on
For Auld Lang Syne and old times
For wee bonnie lasses and dead Clementine,
Forsaking keepsakes and namesakes.
Molecules of maddening
We are configured to sally forth, our postures of indivisibility…
Breaking down and sub-letting our souls each time
If the chemistry presents itself, as
Tempting and strong.
I need to feel the human warmth
Skin on skin, chocolate sin
And then, the retrospective retelling
Of the tale.
Sifting through granaries
Treasure chests hunkered down,
In secret attics and cul-de-sac lofts
Junkets and feasts,
Grand banquets of memory.
I shall not keep old obelisks
Of games well played.
I sift through the rotten grain
Over watered, gratuitous kudos obtained.
Through noblesse oblige, self-gratification,
Through fair play, or obtained gratis,
Through plots and schemes
I am looking for other tells.
The unseen presence
Of an empty gift wrapping
The gift disdained
Old and forgotten.
Sometimes in the packaging
The substance remains.
The old worn out hands
Tremble once again
Squeezing juice from lemons
Time after time,
I forget nothing.
The sweet taste of her lemonade.
But it's the trembling fingers
Of her feeble efforts,
The concentrate of her
Love's essence, that remains.
Father’s forehead wrinkles
Each line pronounced,
Means one more worry,
I could renounce.
I remember the reluctant kiss
He obtained. From his little daughter,
Pouting, dancing, prancing.
So much water under the bridge.
The cute seventies polka dotted maxi dresses
Mom bought me.
So much caught in choked up sluices of
Canal waste. I pack up black garbage bags of
Charms and curses
Odds and ends.
Cigarette stubs, burnt eyelashes, fringes of my teenage ebony bangs
Locks shorn off in adolescent penitence.
I cannot keep them all.
But egg shell blue walls, turquoise curtained,
My childhood bedroom,
An youthful uncle, eyes bright rupee coins,
Whose dance moves I copied,
My old dad jiving, twisting to Disco music,
Awkwardly trying to copy his hip younger sibling.
Mother's mouth in thin stern remonstrance,
For setting daughter a bad example,
She swears by classical music or Tagore
Not these hippy seventies flapper whores.
I remember guilty pleasures as these.
I enjoy the beats and swinging measures
But I love my mother
And sidle behind her
Peeping at dad's
Less than groovy moves.
The sofa set in its cosy nook
Mother teaching me
To lisp a Tagore song.
Sighing. I am unable
To replicate her tuneful voice.
I embrace the darkness still
That joins me to her dying
The betrayal when she gives up
Her kindness, her obtuse blindness,
At my failure’s shame.
The brilliant brightness of
A dainty mother
Feted for her radiance
Her daughter wilting away
In lifelong incompetence.
To shine, to be her
Mini me replica.
Yet she was an invalid. Heroic in spirit.
Her lifelong illness a learning paradigm of
Survival and acceptance.
Her smiling face is my
Sweet just desserts.
She never gave up.
Yet...her daughter learnt
Early to let go.
Allowed to leave
Her energy discharged, waned,
As her health faded
Her head gave way.
In the late nineties,
She stored our ten digit
Mobile numbers in a diary
Mine, brother's and father's.
It was too long to keep in her greying head.
And sifting through shifting garbage in my
Mind’s waste basket,
The trembling rotund curves
Of 9s and 8s and elephantine procession of
Her shaking unsure digits…
They leave their mark.
They leave me penitent.
Stone turned solvent.
Crawling ant footprints dazed by time.
A mother's love contained
In ten trembling neuroplastic digits.
Because it is not the taste or aroma of her soup
I recall, so much as the rich colour of rubicund
Tomatoes sloshing in blue floral mugs.
It is not so much the first time
I had coffee I recall, but how frothy bubbles
Brimmed over in decadent copious fall.
Beautiful toppings that promise
Plenitude, an abundance of affection.
And even recollections become hoardings
That we have lost nothing
Though time moved on,
Passed us along like pocket change pennies
Across the counters of dime-a-dozen
Nothing is lost
The magic chant
The Aum and Omega
Alpha never to end in Alas of oblivion.
Is promised, to us.
But by who, says who?
This is umami undefinable,
Tart, sweet, sour, pungent,
Tangy, delicious, bitterest mystery
Held tight in the replicating cabbage heart
Of endlessly looping, re-looping life.
No one admits to it, the answers
We seek are our own creation.
Looking for creators we forget
How, to be our own gods.
our flesh memories decay.
The stench of lies detected.
Nothing is as happy, as golden as the past.
As if we adjusted the contrasts, increased
Brightness and warmth, tinkering with
Resolutions old and new.
This bride in her red brocade death sentence
Died a hundred times before her throbbing
The thrill was ever in seeking.
Sweet consummation’s consumption.
I will remember the memory I choose,
I will kiss and tell, to warm my lips
At the end of the telling.
Nothing is lost, but everything.
The given is only this.
We must, let go and move on.
Willy nilly, we change into symbols,
Morals and stories, to provide
Meaning, mise en scene,
To successive followers.
Brave, wise, foolish, beautiful
Or serene. Everything individual
Turning and returning
On totem poles
Of collective consciousness.
The human experience of We
To be me, just like this, secluded, a little bit
Reclusive, to think up my own little map
Of living, a little luxury, a tiny perfect
Thing of sublime dissolution.
Under the green bough I sleep
I doze comatose awaiting the apple
Of enlightenment. Newton or Eve,
Serpent or wicked witch,
Snow White or step mother, does not matter.
The Apple will fall, or be plucked.
It must be had. Rising in the fall.
(The theme of my poem is the progression of my soul over a time bound life confined in space that is deteriorating physically aging, cracking, degrading and yet in festers and cracks it heals and shows itself tempered towards a greater understanding, the role play of memories and the fine tuning and selecting of that which is surprisingly important in the end and that which is dispensable.)
Acknowledgements: Map of Living and Tiny Perfect Things are titles of two movies borrowed for my poem.
This is an epic filled with brilliantly memorable images, to be savoured then cherished, a wordsmith of the first order, playing magical tricks with the imagination.ReplyDelete
Couldn't have said it betterDelete
Thank you so very much dear Anonymous and Marcia Helena Hewitt. Deeply grateful to both of you.Delete