Saturday, October 09, 2010

poem: parlous

i cure the heights
i call the hearts

i mass the vacancies

the perilous depths

simon in his netherwhere

africa in her silence

you and your shores

you and your calling lies

no one knows

the stage

the voiceless rage

for you i call

crawl so low

the tired silence in

your heart's care

the silence of lies

we show the world.



Anonymous Miss Alister said...

Proof that you’re out there, maybe in your netherwear, absconding with an ancient manhole lid to a parlous state, hounds howling after you... I read your poem on a byway in god knows where when I passed through there, sometime in yesterday’s today. Well I’ll be! I said. A trace of Paschal : )

4:22 AM  
Blogger Dee Martin said...

I read these three poems from the top down and then went back through from the other direction because I wanted to end here. This one wrapped around me. Every line spoke. This may be my favorite poem that you have ever written. God knows where indeed. Where or where did this come from? And the picture paired with it! Lonely, abandoned.

6:42 AM  
Blogger Teresa said...

A very desolate poem and posted at 1:06 AM. Hope you are well, bro.

10:01 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Yo, Duchess. Got your earlier message, and I will get there, you know I will. I've got retina-blast these days, from all the extra work I'm giving the kids. I like the results of the work, but it leaves me less electronically inclined than usual. Hope you took thirds on the coffee.

11:51 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Dee: Funny how the words wend to other ears and eyes. I cut lines from this poem before posting it and I was not happy with the end, but just left it in the rain to fend for itself. And lo! A favorite. Glad it found a heart's home up north.

11:55 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Teresa: I am well. This was written in Austin on the coffeehouse riverside deck, listening to some haunting music, beautifully sung: the poem was written parallel to the performance, almost an attempt at translation, since the words were often garbled. Of course, there may be inner islands in need of singing, too, but not to worry: we are well.

1:06 because last night, after an 11 pm return from the football game, was the first time I'd had all week to just vege out with the computer and get caught up on transcribing and trolling my way around the neighborhoods.

12:05 PM  
Blogger Dee Martin said...

so instituto fledglings are creating new and deeper grooves in the brain matter. I'm glad you got a moment to post - the prof needs feeding now and then too :)

12:55 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Dee: Indeed: deeper grooves in all the matter, and all that matters.

2:56 PM  
Blogger Teresa said...

Glad to know you're alive and well. I did enjoy the poem. I didn't have time this morning to write more.

5:34 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Teresa: It's good to hear from you. I know we're all off on some busy journeys this fall. Keeping you in my thoughts.

1:20 PM  
Blogger Miss Alister said...

I know you did.

And you know I did...

Fourths, actually. Ain't nothin' like zingin' :-D

2:42 PM  
Blogger anno said...

Wonderful to find you at home here, and such beautiful pieces,too: somehow speaking to yearning, ache, and promise. Loved the idea of inner islands in need of singing as well; it's been that kind of week. Good to hear from you again.

2:45 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Duchess: Thassa girl.

3:22 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Anno: Thanks for helping to keep the fires burning. Here's to all the islands.

3:24 PM  

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