the stray goose honks
weakly and in despair
on its way north. What I hear
in the hollow between its
sound and my ear
is just a world that words
capture in their net, mere poetry
rooting sentiment
in the chatter of an unquiet self.
Is there something there
in meat, brain, bone that points truenorth, beyond dirt and clay and seed time
and words that build a house of reeds?
As a child I dreamed
of a Spring that never dies,
fields and lawns of a palace
where the lost find the misplaced
thimble, the thread and needle,
and the dead love without end.
The dreams of childhood
should not solace now: trite
cliches that swarm to fill
the nothing of time,
the now that eludes saying
and whose trace
I once believed I could track
like deer to a wilderness lake.
The flesh is weak, writes Paul;
words, again, words...
the pulse to feel earth's groan,
the ache to breed and explode
in leaf and stalk, pistil and stamen,
unending bulge and throb
of desire for fullness,
anything to fill the hole.
Words again words...
ghosts on a page
empty of meaning
and on whose vellum
bone, meat and brain
find the defeat
whose carcass I am
but am not. In those dreams
and in those words whose fire
etches shadow punching air--
quivering mass of fear
aswarm at the edge of chaos--
I enact a joy-filled prayer
for all I was, am, and will be,
so that all is not lost and all
is possible for what is beyond time,
the moment when dead eye blinks
once and goes out in light.
copyright 2011 Charles David Miller</p>
I'm posting this at dversepoets.com in reply to Karin's great prompt on exile. The poem speaks of exile, though not the political, social, or psychological exile described in the prompt. It's religious in tone and content, so it conflicts with the object of Karin's introductory words, James Joyce, a great atheist writer.
this reads like a journey to the self...the capture of what's outside meets the inside and then goes somewhere new, from childhood to death and in all that places in between that we see or feel or sense...a fascinating write charles
ReplyDeleteWell this is beautiful. (And I tried not to stress Joyce's issues with religion, which I think in Ireland, were issues with hierarchy and certain types of grandiosity as much as anything else.)
ReplyDeleteBut the way you bring in the goose and the true north at the beginning is so lovely - and still with the meat and bone later and the rebirth/but also not at the end, being born to a true light like a true north. Really terrific.
I have not had time to get my own new poem in place and may try something older if I don't have time, but just can't feel rushed these days- a bit tired.
This, however, very inspiring==now I have to re-think all! K.
dang...this is awesome charles....
ReplyDeletethe now that eludes saying
and whose trace
I once believed I could track
like deer to a wilderness lake
the stanza on paul rolling into sex, ha...like that too...i am glad for the relief from the measuring of self at the end and thankfulness that you engender...
This all really comes down to what we see as our perception of 'true', doesn't it?
ReplyDeleteWe've had the wool pulled over our eyes by organised religion of all main faiths for the past 2,000 years. Loved the imagery and flow through all of this and, your free thinking too.
This is fabulous, really liked it.
ReplyDeleteAs I'm ruminating on where I want to take this post, the sense of spiritual exile is where I find myself drifting. You've expressed the tension so perfectly, Chaz...can I just borrow yours? :0) The 3rd stanza, especially, resonates for me.
ReplyDeleteSorry, I had to reply to someone's comment in order to be able to comment at all... ;) Really meaningful. I relate to this search of something that fills the hole... And this is particularly beautiful:
Delete"...mere poetry / rooting sentiment / in the chatter of an unquiet self." Ah, that chatter, I know it well enough. I've been looking for something to root myself, and it appears that words and poetry are part of it. Thank you!
The burden of being human, like being the lost and astray goose, is almost too much to bear at times, the rush to live, the words that net but somehow kill what they catch, the constant endings of things one wants to continue, or continuance of what one wishes would end--all that sense of being an object void of control yet expected to control is here, only said in compelling and original ways--I'm glad you found an exit from exile in your concluding lines. Fine writing and beautiful flow and feel to this, Charles.
ReplyDeleteWhen I look at the world with poetry in mind...I have all the companionship I need in the words. This is a journey that resonates with the reader, as so many directions can be taken...one I'll return to that will present me with a different adventure, depending on my own frame of mind. As always, the presentation, the pacing, the wicked flow...all bloody addictive!
ReplyDeleteI get a sense it's a moment of contemplation...that whole what does it all mean, and wanting to get at that meaning and when you think you've got it...it disappears or it's always just out of reach. It's a constant battle for a sense of equilibrium. I much enjoyed the exploration!
ReplyDeleteYour words are rich like the dream and spiritually uplifting with a joy filled prayer ~ Fine writing Charles ~
ReplyDeleteThe way you weave nature throughout in such a personal way really resonates with me, Charles, creatively rendered. :)
ReplyDeleteThe moment when dead eye blinks once and goes out in light is what counts and hopefully with a smile that says"Oh,that's what it was":) A very personal poem that I can relate to.
ReplyDeleteClever in all its phases and layers. With an optimist's outcome. As clever as your brilliant comments are, which I read all over the place. [I secretly crowned you King of the Commenters.]
ReplyDeleteSpirituality and religion are not topics I have directly explored yet through my poetry so I am glad you were able to take me on that journey today... and it really felt like a journey.
ReplyDeleteVery powerful-- especially love this:
ReplyDeletethe stray goose honks
weakly and in despair
on its way north. What I hear
in the hollow between its
sound and my ear
is just a world that words
capture in their net...
You have a great lattice of emotion here-- perhaps you'll want to work additional imagery in at some point-- some things so hard to get across, yes? xxxj
I don't think so, but I will see. Thank you for peeking in again.
DeleteThis is good, very good, and I love the depth of faith that goes to the darkness and is willing to come back to the light, as faint as it is, because it is light. Well done! Glad you brought this one out to share.
ReplyDeleteFirst, I adore the title, and appreciated the interweaving of allusions and personal insight that makes your work fascinating.
ReplyDeleteLovely, gets to the heart of Portrait of the Artist. . . my favorite:
ReplyDelete"whose carcass I am
but am not."
Chaz, I am a practicing follower of Jesus and I see no conflict in your poem and Joyce's work. Both are filled with love, and that's the only quality that matters in life. "The chatter of an unquiet self" is, for me, my mind ready to write once again! Peace to you, Chazinator, and I love this write. Amy
ReplyDeletehttp://sharplittlepencil.com/2012/06/17/far-away-from-home-exile/
your poem, charles, is truly "a joy-filled prayer...for all I was, am, and will be" -
ReplyDeleteand i've always thought joyce liked thinking he was an atheist, more than actually being one ;-)
A meaningful search for spiritual self with a final ressurection of it in that last hopeful stanza. Beautiful work, Chazzy :))
ReplyDeletebeautifully woven ... my favorite is
ReplyDelete"the pulse to feel earth's groan,
the ache to breed and explode
in leaf and stalk, pistil and stamen,
unending bulge and throb
of desire for fullness,
anything to fill the hole."
This write has a very powerful ending, words are simply words until we make them real and that is what this write archives at the final stanza....
ReplyDelete