MYSTIC HOUR, BLUE AND PALLID
I am becoming Baudelaire’s sick muse,
mostly because of the nightmare visions
I have of myself – hollow eyes, steel hair,
knotted, twisted, burning – silent.
I once carried a dream, as if it were
a child, close to my breast - dying
now – consumptive, a blood veil
covering the one white iris.
You asked me, once, what sense could be
made of the delicate scent hovering around
our bed, as we floated to the moon
to light our torches and to fan the embers
that we thought were dead.
I had no answer then, but this I know -
this long weeping that you hear now, will roll
from age to age, from one generation of
muses to another, until we can no longer
inspire the poets who need us so desperately.
14 comments:
This is so powerful, K.
I had the feeling of traveling some stretch of this woman's scorched soul. Of hearing the plaintive disillusionment and hopelessness beneath the waves of weeping.
Your vision of eyes are haunting. And your words have inspired this fledgling poet to want to capture the beauty in that dark hour, too.
I knew from the first line that sadness or depression will follow,none the less your descriptive words and prases paint such images in my brain it's hard not to keep reading well done
Sarah, I appreciate your insights and astute remarks, and am thoroughly delighted that my words have inspired you. What better compliment can one obtain? Thanks.
Hans, I am glad that you kept reading, in spite of impending sadness. I feel honored that you get so much from my poetry. Thank you.
"until we can no longer
inspire the poets who need us so desperately"
What a tragedy the loss of inspiration can be. When you are an artist or a writer (of any sort) with nothing to express, it's like 'Who am I then?' The feeling is so dreadful, it's like grief.
A well captured emotion.
Trooping With Crows - That is so true. Usually, I have no trouble with inspiration - it is finding the time to invest or the right avenue of expression that becomes difficult. It is frustrating to be in the writing mood and have writer's block. I want to have a new poem, but cannot coax it from my brain. It IS a dreadful feeling. That is when we really call upon our muses... if they can still inspire!
The dream child dying, clutched to the breast. That image may very well haunt me.
I hope that cry about to ring to the generations will yet be silenced by a smile.
Jason,
That is an image that I have used in several of my poems; mainly because, for me, there was no better way of saying that sometimes we are truly disappointed in life or in ourselves.
And sure..optimistically, for every downfall there will be an upward swing. In life, we face so many natural dualities. We are sorrowful one day, and the next steeped in elation. It's life. (or is that my Scotch Irish roots showing)
Thanks, as always, for your insight, Jason.
I've felt those black currents and dualities. But to my last breath (I hope), I will refuse to cross the finish line at the bottom of one of life's troughs. I feel those whispering demons sometimes too in the dead of night. I will not lay down for them. I want to strive to be a beacon for coming generations, not a warning.
Jason,
Very well said! And I am with you, brother.
I can't imagine your finishing at the bottom of anything - much less life.
Shine on!
the sadness of your poem was heartfelt,the interactions of your readers and yourself is both powerful and refreshing. I truly enjoy your blog
Rosetta, Aren't you sweet for saying so. I am very happy to have YOU as one of my readers. Your comments are always so perceptive and welcomed. ;D
Such marvelously fluid word imagery.
Rick...Thank you. This one sort of wrote itself one day. Do you write poetry, as well as essays and short stories?
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