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Patrice D'Ambra Burdette --Pataliyah

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Eve's Remembrance of Cain
by Patrice D'Ambra Burdette --Pataliyah
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Patrice D'Ambra Burdette --Pataliyah
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For anyone who has had the experience of watching their child fall into darkness, perhaps this will make sense.

 


 


Eve's Remembrance of Cain




If the Creator had chosen
at the time of my beginning
to make of me
     a tree,
     or a house
      a stone or bird...
to be,
never knowing the which
or the why--






having no idea
I stand day on day
to shade and hush you
make melody of rain and wind
while the screen of my presence
veils you from  the world
my leaves  illuminate  
glow you green and soft
until one day you notice
here and there,
in my way, that is always quiet
that asks for nothing,
I have gone.






You see that now the sun enters your room
at a new angle,
warms the floor at your feet,
while squirrels ruckus upon your roof
tapping  tiny invectives above you.
Your teapot screams a perfect high E
and for the slightest of moments,
you wonder at the why of it--
but of course, you know the answer--
it 's what trees do, what squirrels do
that's what the sun does, every year.
The bird's chirping search for seed
reminds you this is the "Gets-fat-moon"
or so the Indians have said
and they should know--
These things you have read of them
in your chirping soul's search for seed
to grow fat upon, before Winter.






But of all this I will have known nothing.
Not candor of quiet leaving
...nor  holiness of arms out-stretched naked
against  pewter sky~






Nor  arc of cobalt majesty
managed with the simplest flick of wing.
The gleaming bead of my eye clicking now
in the cold light as I catch a glimpse
of your man shape in the glass.
It frightens me,
and in my panic
I rush for your face
I dive into your eyes
and
end there.






 I am
absorbed into stone.
and if I feel anything being stone,
perhaps it is the weight of the house
( that I also could be)
that stands upon me,
pressing me slowly
into the earth I am becoming--
or rain
or thud of foot fall
running from room to room...
perhaps, in my rockish way
I hear these things
though sounds mean nothing
to a stone or the house that contains them.
Though you abandon me, leave me derelict upon a hilltop
my windows cracked and curtains tattered--
  Cries cannot move me
  nor blood displace me.
Not even your blood, most precious.
I  absorb you back into me.
It is there we will meet again
at the place of God's imagining.






All rights reserved, Pataliyah. Copying without permission for non-personal use is forbidden.



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Reviewed by William DeVault 5/21/2006
An extraordinary expression of a rare perception, and very, very true.
Reviewed by richard cederberg 5/18/2006
I am amazed at the utter uniqueness of your perceptiveness. I have found in my many adventures that there are, occasionally, those rare wildflowers that defy categorization. Irrespective of the plethora of weeds surrounding them, these wildflowers inevitably develop into artists with eyes that see well beyond primary colors.
There is nothing prosaic about how your visions play upon the artistic psyche. I find a sense of liberation, or if you will, a freedom from poetic prejudice as I dive into the deep waters.
BRAVO!
Richard L Cederberg
Reviewed by Regis Auffray 5/17/2006
This is superbly compelling poetry, Pataliyah; worthy of much more than a single reading. Thank you for sharing your gift. Love and peace to you,

Regis
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