Gently
on my lashes.
Deftly
on my tongue.
Novel
at first
then
less new
and finally
numbing.
Unique.
Every one.
Pure.
And pristine
until sullied
until slushed
by the traffic
the traffic
the traffic.
Encrusted.
Frozen fiasco.
Soot.
And gray.
Granular.
And black.
Slicked.
And yellow.
Pissed.
The paralysis
the stupor
lying in the drifts
as the fate
the fear
the faith and finality
the frost
the frost
the frost
... bites.
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License.
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Welcome to "When I Wax"-- a place to escape the pedants and wax poetic, or even wax artistic.
The mythologist Joseph Campbell was asked by an interviewer how a regular person could preserve his sense of the mythic when so many feel too besieged by the claims of every day living. He said, "You must have a place to which you can go, in your heart, in your mind, or your house, almost every day, where you do not know what you owe anyone or what anyone owes you. You must have a place you can go to where you do not know what your work is or who you work for, where you do not know who you are married to or who your children are."
When I Wax is such a place for me. Blogging drafts of poetry and other sundries is like practice fly-casting on the front lawn... it may look silly, but it's effective...
The mythologist Joseph Campbell was asked by an interviewer how a regular person could preserve his sense of the mythic when so many feel too besieged by the claims of every day living. He said, "You must have a place to which you can go, in your heart, in your mind, or your house, almost every day, where you do not know what you owe anyone or what anyone owes you. You must have a place you can go to where you do not know what your work is or who you work for, where you do not know who you are married to or who your children are."
When I Wax is such a place for me. Blogging drafts of poetry and other sundries is like practice fly-casting on the front lawn... it may look silly, but it's effective...
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CURRENT MOON
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Thank you
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
George Gordon Byron
The Destruction of Sennacherib
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License.
8 comments:
this feels heartbreakingly familiar. and very beautiful in its sadness. thanks for visiting my blog. and the linkage :)
Thank you Capegirl for spending a few moments here. Come back often.
This is wonderful. The words are used sparingly, but are perfectly chosen. Blunt but not without beauty.
I'm definitely ready for the thawing. I've had enough of this "frozen fiasco" of winter and everything it has brought with it.
Louise- amen sister. The frozen fiasco may end any time now. We up here in Upstate NY are beginning to feel this winter is taking on Narnia characteristics, the spell of the eternal winter of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. We are ready for Aslan's visit.
Thanks for your compliments on the poem.
You make winter seem beautifully gritty. My favorite part were the lines that repeated.
Thank you RR!
"Gently
on my lashes...
Deftly
on my tongue.
Novel
at first
then
less new
and finally
numbing.
Unique.
Every one."
This is hauntingly beautiful and thought provoking!
I am visiting via the "Poet Who Blog" Carnival.
Thank you JL...what thoughts are provoked?
How do your sons enjoy those mustangs? We have regular old shetlands and thoroughbreds here.
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