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Legacy of Ash
Dear children of tomorrow,
beneficiaries of our place in the order of things:
It's true what they said, we didn't listen to the Earth,
though it could speak and sing, bleed and cry
just like you.
Even now cicadas are outrattling, outliving my
stream of thought. They sizzle like some kisses
I remember, and make the feral, hot-tar summer of 1978
dance again.
Yes, we swam in rivers that would never be that naive
again and surrendered in the soft combat of wild forests,
the kind you dream about in your vagabond sleep,
and you hate us for the the conspicuous gold fields and
foaming hillsides our eyes reaped without effort and wonder
why we were so sad when we had bees and air
not yet sick with chemical diseases and oceans like a
psychedelic broth, an immortal simmer of everything that
lived or will live, not your banquet of plastic
the last fish swallow and curse.
And at night we could watch, though we rarely did, the
vain Cassiopeia imprisoned in jewels and other actors in
a tin-lantern theater until too many fake stars bleached them
into a grainy sky.
Some kill the ones they love by inches
because they hate their lives and don't
feel enough.
We killed because we didn't
feel enough.
Beloved children, take our gift to you:
Inherit our poison, our ashes, the scraps from our
long, mad feast.
Piece together the shards of our empire
where we loved our manufactured joy more than
what was free.
Ponder the psychotic joke we told at your expense
and dream of another planet,
still a proverb without words,
still volumes of poems,
each one a life—
a world equally endless and small,
both mother and daughter,
sane and unsold,
safe in your arms.
Patricia Joan Jones
May the phoenix bird rise
May the phoenix bird rise from thie legacy of ash
..May wel all be redeemed
I don't believe in hell.. except for what I see we've done
to earth.
Thank you
I completely agree with you
I completely agree with you that hell is the illusion of separation in this terrestrial battlefield. Thank you so much for your positive input. You make a difference.
Tantalizing
Clear and crisp as a silver whistle calls us to wisdom. The phrases you conjure are stunning. You connect beautiful, brilliant snippets together into a real and serious conception. An invite to righteous revolution with a beckoning, perfected intimacy. I am blown away. Your poetry proves to be a successfully timeless representation in a world of festering futility.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitutes
I can't thank you enough for
I can't thank you enough for discerning my message with such magnificence, eloquence and insight. I'm deeply moved.
you`re welcome pat
you`re welcome pat
ron parrish
man is the downfall of
man is the downfall of everything,we screw everything up,we start wars and we have ruined the envirement all in the name of greed and power,,,,,i believe there is a spirit,or soul in all creation
ron parrish
Thank you for your very
Thank you for your very enlightened comment, your words of truth and your deep concern for our world. It's always a pleasure when you stop by.
Ocean broth, legacy without
Ocean broth, legacy without guilt, a bejeweled constellation--gritty skies. The comedian said go outdife while there is stillsn outside to ho to. Inheritance: a new planet and a whimsical "good luck as we mucked it up good since 1850". Always a thread of hope. Poison, ashes, our feast - the gluttiny admitted became dream another planet (leave this planet or transform it to below planetary heat survival levels). Slender optimism is there, to be nurtured in its potential. 17 year cycles? 10? 5? Whales are beaching.
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Shards of empire and manufactured joy vs a simple walk or planting of a garden, trimming a bush-Capitalism's "empire" evolving again i to IMPERIALISM needs a "Hard Reset" to include and not neglect.
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So much here well executed. Actually advocating revolt as change to a new way of work and play to save the fish and the corals. And us. Great write.
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~S~
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I can't thank you enough for
I can't thank you enough for your precise and brilliant interpretation of my expression. Yes! That's exactly what I was driving at. I deeply appreciate your solidarity during this catastrophic death spiral of our planet, and that perfect quote by a wise comedian. I also appreciate your astute observation of how we arrived here since the last appearance of the cicadas during the "Bush-Capitalism's 'empire'".
"Imperialism needs a hard reset" Absolutely! And now. Hopefully it's not too late for that revolt. Thank you kindly for your concern and your generous feedback.
Wow! Only a Poet of
Wow! Only a Poet of Patricia's stature could make a cicada poem this successful. I will bring to this comment a term which, I believe, has not been used by any other commentor: this is what I would call a legacy poem. I derive this term from certain, mostly science fiction, tales or poems that speak in terms comparing what had been to what is left, with the former usually a pleasantly bucolic environment, and the remaining situation a wreckage of that. It is, basically, a variation on the theme of humanity's expulsion from Eden due to bad choices. Back in the dinosaur days of the early seventies, I read a short story where an audio time capsule is uncovered, and the speaker apologizes to the listeners about the state of the world that the listeners have inherited, as compared to the beauty of it that the speaker once knew, and then saw being destroyed. The last line reveals that the time capsule's speach was never understood, because it was discovered by ants, and ants have no hearing apparatus. I have never forgotten either the horror of that story, or the poignancy of the speaker's great regret. My very first foray into writing science fiction (to which I aspired before I considered poetry) was a legacy tale. It ultimaely failed, but it was fun to write during my sophomore year. This poem is not science fiction, of course, and at its end one does not hear the voice of Charlton Heston screaming, "Soylent green is people!" But the poem's center of gravity is given to us in the first five lines---which is unusual for this Poet who, customarily (and like Pop Stevens) encloses the centers of gravity toward the middle of the poem, generally. But by leading with this, she establishes the point of the poem immediately and starts the process with or without our assistance---like the voice in that time capsule discovered by the ants. (BTW, I was did not have sufficient foresight, in seventh grade, to write down the title of that tale, or the author, so I cannot cite it here. I have never seen it since.) The imagery presented by the poem is described with her customary succintness---she has the ability to state an image in a few words, but with no doubt as to what she is stating, or why, or how it fits into the poem. William Golding wrote a novel called The Inheritors, in which the last Neanderthal human beings see their world inherited by the Cro Magnons, and the innocent and bucolic world of the Neanderthal people will become, at the hands of Cro Magnons, corrupted in preparation for the world our form of the species will create. (And yes, I must use other literary comparisons because this poem is too profound for me just to say, Gosh, I like this, and the imagery is pretty.) And, lastly, I will compare this poem to one of my most favorite authors, the great and mononymic writer, Trevanian, and the novel I consider his greatest triumph, The Summer Of Katya (which I highly recommend to any readers of this comment). In the Katya novel, the speaker is narrating a love story from the summer that immediately preceded the commencement of WWI: what he called the Age of Grace giving way to the Age of Efficiency---that is, the efficiency of death, as, in that war, the discoveries of science were turned to beligerent purposes, for the first time in human history. This created a gap between two worlds, and a gap so vast that there was no going back, for the speaker, for Katya, and for us. This is what Patricia's poem essentially tells us. She says, "We loved our manufactured joy more than / what was free." This is an answer in assent to the Katya novel---to the love of manufactured processes that led to the murderous efficiency of places like Auschwitz and Belsen; and to the dropping of a metallic cannister over Aoi Bridge in Hiroshima, Japan, in August, 1945. There was no going back to the world that those devices closed to us. This is what Patricia is teling us, adding her very original voice and perceptions to those of one of her greatest peers, Trevanian. And I applaud this until the palms of my hands sting from clapping. I have compared her poetry, her insights, and her verbal skill to that of Wallace Stevens; now I compare her, with the utmost admiration, to the greatness of Trevanian. Although he has left our world, I am sure he would have acknowledged her greatness as well; and that is what I have tried to do here, with regard to this magnificent, triumphant, but ultimarely gut-wrenching poem.
J-Called
If you can find the name of
If you can find the name of that story let me know. I would love to read it. Yes, I was trying to do something similar to that, and I kept going back and forth on whether I should make it clear from the beginning who the audience was, so I felt relieved and validated by your comment on this.
My goal was to plainly and clearly get an urgent message across from the start, and I'm gratified that you appreciated my choice.
I'm overwhelmed and humbled by your comparisons. I love how you go above and beyond the call of duty and let me know why, exactly, you felt something worked. This acknowledgment has been instrumental in motivating me to keep scribbling and imagining. That's a gift I can never repay on this side of the mortal veil.
Your comparison to Trevanian's choice of time period was particularly moving and stunning. Thank you for using such a sharp-focused analogy for the theme of this and many other environmental poems.
To be reviewed, in such depth and intricate insight, by a scholar and a word adept such as yourself is always a privilege and a priceless gift.
Praying for your comfort and happiness. God bless.
Thank you for the reply. For
Thank you for the reply. For reasons I cannot quite explain---and this is a ferent reader's response not a (however amateur) scholar's---I think this poem, and your others, work on the same level as Trevanian's novels and short stories; perhaps even moreso than on Stevens' level. Like Trevanian, and unlike Stevens, part of your art is to engage the reader who can respond to your words. (I am not sure this makes sense, but I am going to try to finish this response.) Stevens seems to almost say, at times, "I am not sure anyone is quite like me, and that's ok; you can still take a look at this." Whereas you, like Trevanian, seem to say to the reader, "You may be a lot like me, but we are not like everyone else, and that's okay; and, thus, I invite you to take a look at this." So, with this poem, and the light it sheds on your other poems, you are teaching me about two of the Poets I most admire: Pop Stevens, and Trevanian. I guess this old dog, myself, can learn a few new things, even at this late stage of my life. The sense of discovery---which I mostly lost after my freshman year of college, to be replaced by a sense of conformity---can be restored, even at this late stage. And for that---for prying open my brain a little further---I thank you most sincerely.
J-Called
You've pried open my old
You've pried open my old brain as well.
I'm very gratified to be considered anywhere close to the orbit of Trevanian, in fact, as I read his novel I thought it would be amazing to write half as well as he, so that is high praise indeed. I love Stevens' work, but at times find him inaccessible and aloof, but then, that was part of his personality, even his genius.
Thank you for all your advice, validation and votes of confidence that keep the fires of imagination burning. I owe you a great debt as well. Too many thank-you's to mention.