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Resurrection in Albemarle County
They say dig two graves before you stalk
the ambrosial prize of revenge, and I did,
until my own grave appeared sweeter,
so I've come here to the mountain to hunt
the reclusive angels I suspect hoard serenity
for cases like me,
but so far I've only been baptized by waves of wind
and accepted into the order of everyday wonders,
even the wild ginger, the breathing field, the violets,
closer to any prayer I've ever attempted.
Yes, the world fractured us, and we can't unhear it
or unsee it and we certainly can't unfeel it and
there's no dismantling a tower so tightly
packed with rage.
A weathered flag hangs with defiance
from a dozing gray barn below the skyline—
the wheeling hawks aren't impressed, and the
colors of freedom look unconvincing
next to the evening sky: a commotion of
phosphorescence and peace. A grander finale
could not be of this world, but still
no angels, no rest.
So what's it like to to step out of the snickering
riddle of day and into the perfection
of nothing?
No wings, no answers needed there, just an
unremarkable and wandering now—
a motionless flight in all directions.
But still I'd rather thirst
than drink the courage . . .
So close.
Over there is a gift, a life actually,
tethered to unabashed joy and also its shadow;
after all, it's one current, one universe,
one thought.
The only catch:
Forgiveness is the only bridge out of here.
And all of Heaven holds its breath. So do the finches
and wrens in a cathedral of sound; so do the
mountains with their countless shades of happiness,
still unmoved in godly indifference; so do the
wasps fizzing in and out of shadow worlds; also
the territories of soul we have to believe in
or nothing makes sense.
No, I won't do it for my enemies, but I will for
the satin sleep I deserve, for the merciful death of
blistering blame, for a heart that doesn't twist and claw
itself to death a thousand times a day.
I take a step.
So this is what it means to see.
Patricia Joan Jones
to many outstanding stanzas
to many outstanding stanzas hard to mpick one,but i think all is based on forgiveness
ron parrish
You're absolutely right.
You're absolutely right. Thank you for understanding and making my day with your kind comment.
An Elegy
To the need to act and rediscover a world once perceived as an angelic gift. "Yes, the world fractured, and we can't hear it." Sometimes a line blows me away - this one? YES! So much depends on your fractured world. An ideation with infinite connotations. Almost broken, in the potential act of breaking. Internal worlds fracture, nature plods on with his hammer. We invented gods in plenitude to stave of breakages. The angels will return. It's their job. ~S~
Thank you for your amazing
Thank you for your amazing illumination of my intention. I'm deeply moved by your insights that are as poetic as they are accurate. "It's their job." You said it best.
As always, the posting of a
As always, the posting of a Patriciajj poem is an event on postpoems, and that applies to this poem too. I am going to address the title and the poem's center of gravity first. Patricia's poems always have some kind of cosmic edge to them; and in this case, like some of Stevens' deepest poetry, she locates the cosmic event of Resurrection to a local site, Albemarle County. This juxtaposition demands the reader's attention to the poem's content. "One current, one universe, one thought . . ." is the poem's center of gravity; everything else in the poem either proceeds toward that or from it.
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She mentions "territories of the soul we have to believe in." This is one of the most important lines she has ever written, for this summarizes the philosophy, venue, and subject of interest of her poetry. And this proceeds from the center of gravity.
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This Poet's cosmology and sense of reality is a prism of many, many facets. The light of the soul, going through this prism, discloses many metaphorical colors, and many wavelenths. As in this poem, so in her entire collection. She is also writing what will prove to be, I believe, a metaphysical epic. Lke Vergil at work on the Aeneid, she is composing it in pieces, and as she posts each one the epic expands. Epics take place over vast territories and domains; her is taking place in those "territories of the soul we have to believe in." But her epic process is not the conquering of a land, or the overthrow of a city, or even the quest to acquire a fleece: it is, instead, the navigation of those soul territories that is displayed before the reader who functions, in the poems, as a candidate seeking initation into the mysteries she understands and is willing to disclose.
Starward
Now . . . just how do I
Now . . . just how do I adequately thank you for your stunning breakdown of my work? You dug deep with some dazzling prose and unearthed my inner vistas with unforgettable metaphors I almost want to frame. My deep and humble gratitude for this gift.
It is I who should thank you
It is I who should thank you for the privilege of reading your Poetry. Your poems remind me of Hayden's symphonies. There is a consistence that gives them a unity, and there is an internal variance that makes each of them interesting, and allows them to modify each other and modify the overall total effect. This is an indicator of greatness, and your poems display it as if you had invented the concept.
Starward
Wow, that means so much.
Wow, that means so much. Thank you!