Grotesque, in love,
spiritual, in decay,
I wrote love’s necrosis
in morse code from the grave,
love's half-shell.
I sought love in blackouts
and drug-induced paranoia,against the nothing where
people turn into puppets filled with hair.
My mouth seized with terror.
My mind frozen. Tongue bit in half.
Once, I heard love's voice from a convent
at the rim of a red arroyo in Santa Fe.
A saintly presence stood in the picture window.
"Guarding a holy place," I thought.
A whisper for release came from behind adobe walls
like a woman's body waiting for touch.
My hunger reached for her voice,
but reeled away tremulous before the pure
presence, and I continued on that road
looking for a drink or to get laid.
But love came to me in that voice, so I can write:
“I once prayed at the Church of Despair.
You embrace the indefinable there.
Walls and windows splinter at your feet.
Death is in the ground.
You hear your own disgust. Your own hate.
You hope it’s not a virus going around.”
(c) copyright 2012 Charles David Millet. All rights reserved.
This is an unpublished poem, posted now in response to @manicddaily's poetry prompt at dVersePoets.com. Karin's idea is that we should write something in the French poetic tradition. This poem is always related in my mind with Baudelaire's poetry, which I read continually as a younger poet. I hope it is "twisted" enough to fulfill Karin's prompt description.
Image: This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.
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strong images in this...esp. loved..i wrote love’s necrosis in morse code from the grave...dang..that's awesome.. never read Baudelaire but think i should def. check him out..
ReplyDeletedang...powerful man....some really great touches through out...I wrote love’s necrosis
ReplyDeletein morse code from the grave...oh those wicked lines....and the end with the virus....another remarkable touch sir...
I sought love in blackouts
ReplyDeleteand drug-induced paranoia,
against the nothing where
people turn into puppets filled with hair
... an illusion of many. Wow... intense images, such profundity. I'm glad you found poetry instead. Love the ending.
Mon semblable, mon frere! This definitely has the necrotic touch of Baudelaire, and also that loop of passion that carries so much with it. So many beautiful and intense lines, as always. Wonderful. k.
ReplyDeleteIt sounds as if this person hit rock bottom, and sometimes I suppose, we have to truly hit rock bottom before we can put what's wrong deep within us, right.
ReplyDeletePowerful, and yes, very beautifully intense.
I specially like the opening lines...the finding love in the end, a mystery, indefinable ~ Lovely share Charles ~
ReplyDeleteThere's so much that feels familiar in this, Chaz...the imagery, the setting, and, above all, the mood. So glad you shared this.
ReplyDeleteI understand where this narrator is coming from. That tender hope at the end is also the possibility of salvation. I see in it a recognition of one's own sickness as well as the beginning at least of a recognition of others, concern for them, and recognizing others is a way out of the hole of self-sickness.
ReplyDeleteMark, I really love your reading of this poem. In many ways, I see that time in my life as a waystation to a deeper awareness of my self. It's a signpost along the journey thru dissolution that I had to take to come to this much healthier place (spiritually, morally) where I am at now.
DeleteImpressive to write in the style of another poet, and a foreign language writer at that. I have to confess that I don't know the style of Baudelaire. [Ignorance in so many areas is hard to conceal.] So I can only form an opinion as on a self standing poem, and it seems overwhelmingly emotional while it unfolds its many facets. So far above and beyond my own capabilites, that I can only bow to your art.
ReplyDeleteTY Aprille for your understanding comment. The poem is not really imitative stylistically of Baudelaire in any way. Prosodically, he was a French classicist, writing traditional forms and meters to such a high degree that he is considered perhaos the greatest French poet. I in no way would even consider tryingbto imitate him in any way in this regard. His genius is way beyond my humble abilities. The poem is in the spirit of Baudelaire, however, in the sense that it refkects his morbid aestheticism, that fascinans he had for finding the perverse and jaded passions so alive in his present-day culture. That aesthetics, that attitude, of relecting the hypocrisy of the world by following a decadent life-style is what this poem reflects, in my mind at least.
Delete“I once prayed at the Church of Despair.
ReplyDeleteYou embrace the indefinable there.
I love it...
Powerful imagery!
ReplyDeleteVery nice write!
ReplyDeleteintense and achy
ReplyDeleteI think Baudelaire would have loved this.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed:
against the nothing where
people turn into puppets filled with hair.
Ugh, 'death is in the ground', chilling. Wonderful read Chaz.
ReplyDeleteThis is stark and reminds me of my past, the past I should probably hate--but don't, because from it came...... Well, you know.
ReplyDeleteYou used one of my favorite words here: arroyo. I always loved the sound and look of it. And then these lines, oh how amazing:
A whisper for release came from behind adobe walls
like a woman's body waiting for touch.
Quite a powerful piece of work here, love it.
ReplyDeleteAwesome write, Charles! I love the emotion seething in this one. The second stanza could stand alone, and is incredibly vivid! Nice!
ReplyDeletethis comes around in a circle. decay, from the grave-then moving into the last stanza with death is in the ground. and all of the image-rich action in the middle. I enjoyed the intensity mixed with humility. ~jane
ReplyDeletei sneak-peak read some of the comments first and almost got scared off! ;-)
ReplyDeleteyeah, powerful stuff charles, and this power-cuts of lines is in much of your work (you folks out there, don't let him fool you this is just 'cause of the french revolution ;-) )
"the grave,
love's half-shell."
and
"tremulous before the pure
presence, and I continued on that road
looking for a drink or to get laid."
i don't know charles, i might hope it is a virus going around ;-)
I always find pathos in that Baudelairean realm of excess, of a lostness profound and almost childlike despite its layers of sensual sophistication. This poem has both--the pathos and the childlike innocence buried cold beneath the path that leads ever downward. And of course, gorgeous language throughout, especially the close. Just a fine poem, Charles.
ReplyDelete"love's half shell"--love that phrase. Sante Fe stanza especially beautiful. . .certainly Baudelairesque
ReplyDelete"I wrote love’s necrosis
ReplyDeletein morse code from the grave, "
Zowie. And then it kept getting better and better. Baudelaire would be pleased. Awesome stuff, sir. Thank you.
Such great imagery here!
ReplyDeleteI wrote love’s necrosis
in morse code from the grave,
love's half-shell.
...and...
against the nothing where
people turn into puppets filled with hair.
...wow!
I wrote love’s necrosis
ReplyDeletein morse code from the grave - potent!
This hit close to home - in 79 I was a six year old living in Taos, surrounded by artists and drug culture, fascinated by the pueblo, living in a hovel on the mesa without running water or electricity, and trying to find love (of a more parental or familial variety but the longing was intense and spiritually driven).
Wonderful write. Full of powerful images and words.
ReplyDeleteWell done!