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the weeping ghosts
The old violin was happy
when
the cello was joyous
The luscious notes of these
companions,
always played together
Like wild ghosts
it made us dance across the stars
like wild ghosts… like wild ghosts… like wild ghosts
we danced across the stars
But the old symphony
broke apart,
and the ghosts went their way… and danced no more
Off they went, each ghost to its corner…
to weep at the loss
~/~
This is like an epic poem
This is like an epic poem compressed into a very small space, and that is a great talent to have. The ancient poet, Callmiachus, said that a big poem was a big headache; the twentieth century poet, J. V. Cunningham, made a most admirable literary career on that premise; and you are continuing the grand tradition in a major way. I applaud your poem and the talent that brought it into existence.
J-Called
Sometimes
Sometimes I get in the habit of compression. But I don’t want to get too overly reliant on it, as I sometimes do. I still find great joy, sitting with something for weeks, months or years – and just letting it ruminate and ferment. Or until I’ve gotten to the right place in my life, to say it properly. And sometimes, that requires letting yourself age too.
Can't help but say it
Hauntingly beautiful. Bittersweet, yet as winter pays for summer, it seems tears are sown to joy. Summer returns, ever again, though.
The Cycles of Time
There is always the great renewal of cycles, and so many cycles there are – both big and small – across our own lifetimes and beyond.