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@ 27.055 MHz: Ad Astra; Returning To Monkeytree Station
Waterstop is scheduled, at Monkeytree Station. The
locomotive begins to slow, then to resist the
forward motion of the coupled coaches it has been
pulling; old brakes squeal, connectors crash together as the
train sides on to the spur, then to the waiting water tower.
Dismal desolation dominates all horizons and dimensions that
somehow center on the delapidated depot that is
Monkeytree Station---like a haunted site from the
seepage of sepia out of a silent movie eleven decades agp.
Yet, as you step down to the platform, you find your lover---
long-haired, shirtless, clad in baggy beige cargos, not barefoot;
unshod; to the contours of his shapely feet cling the beauty of
semi-sheer, sky-blue socks: the weave of the
fabric a little more opaque around his heels and toes. Odd how
his socks do not run on the rough hewn planks of the
makeshift platform. But then, you realize---he never runs, from
anyone or anything; he walks---sometimes, when you are closely watching---
despite the hostility of old prudes and haters that often
surround you---he seems to glide. The socks do not run, and this means
he can protect you---from the planks of the platform at
Monkeytree Station, and from the crudity of the haters that seem to
gravitate toward you. Later, during Love's most erotic
intimacies, he will not remove them; and their glide over
you will be as soft and sensual at his long hair cascading over
you---now, and in moments past. The train is pulling
out, on its way to noplace that was your life before you met him.
You did not reboard. You will remain here, with him, at
Monkeytree station which, despite its delapidation, will not
resist his presence, or those semi-sheer blue socks. He is
your lover, your best friend, your soul-mate; he and his
blue socks which, when you must be apart, he tucks into
your pillow---pledge of his return, pledge of your safety,
pledge that Monkeytree Station, in the middle of nowhere,
will become somewhere, because his love for
you compels it to become, to always be becoming.
J-Called
I rushed right over when you
I rushed right over when you mentioned a sequel. How I love what you did with this! First, you set the stage with the most evocative language and an expertise I've come to recognize as uniquely your own. You certainly know how to bring a reader into a scene.
Your use of alliteration enhanced the essence of some lines and effected its movement in a compelling way. The "D" line was delightfully clever as it underscored the leaden feelings from a stark and bleak atmosphere.
Then out of crumbling surroundings with relics of a bygone era, appears something fresh, casual-chic, beautiful and irresistibly free. As always, only the most striking and significant details are chosen. The stylish socks, in particular, tell a life-altering story.
"he seems to glide"
You say so much in those words. He is a gleaming example to us all: Do not be intimidated or cowed by ignorance and resistance. Live your truth with dignity, aplomb and bliss. Be the sky-blue socks. Slow down and relax into your glorious, unbreakable, one-of-a kind, endless self.
Such an empowering, inspiring message wrapped in beautiful symbolism!
As the perfect day unfurls, the socks don't go anywhere. Still they glide . . .
There's more powerful symbolism when the train pulls away, taking with it all the pain and oppression of the past on "its way to noplace that was your life before . . ." One door is closed and another opens. Such a wondrous moment!
You end on heart-melting poetics that rival the best of the best.
One last thing: Wow!
Thank you. Your
Thank you. Your understanding of the poem validates it as a sequel. As you always do, you highlighted the major points I was trying to make. Your comment on the other Monkeytree poem inspired me to write this, and I humbly and gratefully acknowledge you as Il Maglior Fabbro. I am now strenthened, by your words, to continue expanding this series---which you inspired, and your courage helped to strengthen mine to continue on with it. You have touched my life in so many ways, always to make it more than it was. That is the nature of your poetry and your comments: what you bring to this site makes it better than it was; what you have brought into my life, through your poems and comments, have made it better than it was in, if I recall correctly, January 21 of 2020, when I first read Gates Of Orion, two days before my hospital stay, that year, released me. I remember how stunned I was---comparing it to Roy Batty's final speech before dying in Blade Runner; and how much like Stevens you are. And I know that, in the next century or so (Stendhal predicted he would be understood in a hundred years), some grad students are going to go through even my comments to find out about your poetry, on which they will be writing dissertations. Since that day (my late father's birthday), you have impacted my poems, my life, and this site. Thank you, Patricia, for making postpoems better and greater with the presence of your cosmic poems.
J-9th94
I'm thrilled that you're
I'm thrilled that you're going to expand this enthralling and highly significant series. This needs to be written.
I can't tell you just how motivating and uplifting all your words of appreciation have been. They make all the difference, reminding me that taking the time to write should be a calling, not just an afterthought as it used to be for me.
You've made an indelible impact yourself. You need to see yourself as the essential poet, scholar and friend that you are. May you find comfort and every happiness.
Thank you for those words.
Thank you for those words.
J-9th94