poem: swarming belfast
call the lunaticsthe immigrants
the ferrymen
the facile dead
littering the streets
called out to meet
the morning's elephant clouds
punctuation of the risen moons
calibrated by viviparous hands
the restless call, the restless sleep
gathering the ladies' vote
facile twists
the lines were drawn
the sands in blue filigree
monsters in the blue-eyed smiles
red the wire that saved
all down the avenues
white castle bliss
Sammy D's eventual disarray
claiming spring in summer in blue
fall respendent
axis reeling
savor the fever
indulge the yellow fields
cast fate, cast memory,
cast vulcan roar
the fires are lit
swarm swarming
Belfast Avenue
the dying die
memory-stained in the withers
casual mention, Isaiah's knuckle-scrape
blistered, the grass in the ribs
never 'scaped never
tangled down the reverent
the itinerant
the bubble-packed
the O housed
blue.
Labels: orangefields
posted by murat11 at 9:33 AM
9 Comments:
Caught me up from the beginning, right along with all those facile dead, and carried me through clear to the end. Not entirely sure just where I've been, but am feeling a little singed, a little fevered ... might need to lie down in the grass and watch the clouds for a while.
On another note... for some reason the word "cast" has kept coming to mind lately: so many different ways to use it, both to bring things closer and to move them further away; made me happy to see it here, in triplicate no less.
Anno: Speaking of "cast," my new school toy is the Visual Thesaurus, a website in which parallel meanings sprout like constellations or many-legged insect-like creatures: pretty cool stuff. The school paid for a subscription. The chintzy site lets you make about 3 moves for a "free trial" and then pulls the plug.
Hope you find the grass for that singeing. Coming up on our time of year: that's usually a good thing. Maybe time for e dia de los muertos altar. I incorporate it into the Birthday Week celebration.
Best to you, long-legged poet.
Been preparing for m. to cast away this year; the amount of paperwork I've needed to complete as "school counselor" is stunning. Sure didn't give those guidance counselors nearly enough credit way back when.
Fortunately, her first deadline is November 1, which means I need to be done by then as well. Looks like all is clear for dancing shoes and revelry in the days that follow. And you? Maybe planning to give the urchins a break around then? Would love to hear more about this altar.
Am off to take a look at this Visual Thesaurus. I have a hunch it might make a good Christmas gift for someone I know.
that picture doesn't look like much of a castle, professor, lonely, cold place. Ireland is such a sad beautiful country. Fitting words all, lunatic, immigrant, ferrymen.
Maybe just me but I got turned around at white castle, thinking about the hamburgers and then Sammy D?
Memory stained withers and savor the fever - love those phrases. Love that the song that might have inspired this piece was "Heal Over"
Isaiah's knuckle-scrape stumped me, gotta say.
This was rather relentless and very powerful.
The picture at the top just seems to capture the mood.
I quite enjoyed it.
Anno: Mercy. I have told our new counselor that she has the hardest job (jobs, actually) in the joint; only competition is Director of Admissions - another 24/7 job, and naturally we all depend on the DOA's success.
Since Day of the Dead falls in our sign, the altars are a perfect complement to our year-turnings. Altars to honor the ancestors with all kinds of memorabilia - photos, memorable items, favorite foods and drink, candles (especially the cheesy religious candles found at HEB), votives, lots of orange marigolds (both in vases and shredded and strewn all over the altar and outside to light the ancestral way back home). Anything goes, really. Sugar skulls: the kids "eat death," to conquer it. I honor past pets, as well as human ancestors. Always a roll of toilet paper, since bullmastiff Sophie loved to grab it and roll the house, when she was a pup; crinkly envelope cellophane, Neapolitan Mastiff Lucia's favorite.
I like to assemble it just before Halloween and keep it up through Birthday Week.
Dee: Now that these are turning into Saturday morning poems, you can bet they pretty much distill all manner of collisions through the week, a lethal Sangria concoction.
Read a very gritty and grim (and gripping) YA novel this week: Paul Griffin's The Orange Houses. Beautifully, hauntingly poetic, too.
This morning's gorgeous sunrise clouds were straight out of Dumbo, right after the pink elephants.
In this blathering dither of yin and yang, those burgers did have to sneak in for a peek.
Sammy D was supposed to be biblical Samuel, but that sounded too much, so he quickly morphed into some street creature named Sammy D.
Isaiah is ye olde prophet, grim with tidings, joyful with return, harbinger of the grass 'tween our ribs.
Hey, T: Glad you peeked in. It felt relentless, it wanted to be, burgers notwithstanding. Peace to you, amiga.
lots to find in Samuel and Isaiah - (knuckle scrape?) and I checked out The Orange Houses on Amazon. Still have some bday money on an Amazon gift card so that might get added to my kindle if the school library doesn't have a copy.
Post a Comment
<< Home