Blank, Coffin And Summer Sea Breeze
by Axilea MU
Monday, September 12, 2011
Rated "G" by the Author.
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When your mind goes blank
I know that you sit and cry
the depth is vertiginous
the loss is pus in a wound that never dries
so you hide, glide on the surface
slightly underneath, an antenna probing
the quiet conditioned air
of the barely living
their comfort too ostensible
to be true while
your life is a coffin -
Day and night intermingled
love and hate intertwined
ricocheting whiteness from the lightening of pain
the dark vesperal silk velvet that comforts
on a night of full moon.
There, you see yourself smiling in despair
feel yourself shivering at the bottom of laughter
at the bottom, where you lie -
your life is a coffin -
The jagged edges are numerous, the sharp points
frightening, the fall endless
uncomfortable, sweaty palms
but I know you feel
and equally fear
the quiet emptiness in the bubble
wondering when it’s going to burst
- lost child, pray
Holy Mother of yourself
in this narrow life
stifling like a coffin -
As the sky turned dark steel blue
starless full moon stagnant
in aqueous oblivion
you unfelt, with drowned emotions
as your mind went blank, once again
frightened of hands and signs
the irony of help that hurts through
the uniformity of gleam nights
media noche is a time that washes all away
It is hard to come up with a word or two
to the walled-up being in you
your mind goes blank,
so does my page
the relief of your sea-memory flattened
aurulent dreams forever bleached.
Yet, somehow, no longer confined
your eyes, come out of the coffin
with the music that was somewhere
in a pocket (of your mind) -
Sing, Holy Mother of your orphaned self,
back to our weapons, our quills,
our Aegean summer sea breeze!
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|Reviewed by Charlie
|I too love the depth of this piece/peace. Part of what makes it work so well is your recurring end-lines that compare life to a coffin. the lines before those phrases are so full of colorful imagery, that we can't help but float on your words in blissful poetic melancholia, but we thunk back down to the bottom with the ultimate phrases of your stanzas. We finally resurface for good when "your eyes, come out of the coffin/ witht he music that was somewhere/ in a pocket (of your mind)". Other phrases that deepened my emotions while reading were the repeated "Sing Holy Mother of yourself/ your orphaned self" and the "blank mind/blank page" lines. We get insight into your soul, but more than that, we get insight to our own souls. I mean, when your mind goes blank, there is a default that we've unconciously set, to which our mind goes. And like your "Holy Mother" lines, we learn, and are astonished by the truth, that we essentially are our own creators, and taking peace into our Turkish feather quills, we become the creators of things like this. Astonishing and beautiful. --Charlie|
|Reviewed by Regis Auffray
|There is such depth of meaning to this compelling poem, Axilea; so symbolic and soul-reaching in scope. Thank you for sharing this gift. Love and best wishes,
|Reviewed by Sheila Roy
|An intricate write, Axilea. Spiritual deaths and rebirths are part of the journey, and I feel like this piece spotlights a glimpse on that journey...explores the emotion.
|Reviewed by Jon Willey
|inspiration is the gratuity of psycho-sensual influences that whisper the emotions our egos are consulting at the moment -- when the whispering does not come or disappears into the depths of misconception, we grieve in self-pity -- creativity is more forceful urging us ever onward...a true task master we must self-reconcile or be forever a slave to the caskets of morose outlooks -- too dismal to relate without fear of peer slander or ego crushing laments -- we monitor continuously our competition, those currently meeting with success and audit and evaluate our potential offerings as poetic bulls-eyes under the duress of our own, (in)valid appraisals -- yet once we arm ourselves with the formidable weapons of success, "our quills, our Aegean summer breeze", defeat exists nowhere other than in the coffins of our personal insecurity -- Axilea, a warrior exists with formidable skills and a quill that exudes flowing gold script -- from conception to the role of scribe, you have executed this deed with lush precision -- breath easy and inhale the salt breeze so the muse might dance upon the linen -- for me you have lavished the emotions of the poet in metaphoric silk -- I bid you love and peace my dear friend -- Jon Michael|
|Reviewed by Christine Alwin
|Emotions swing and burst wide open in the end..fantastic work Axilea!|
|Reviewed by Chip Bergeron
|This poem feels lkke where my spirit is far too often.
|Reviewed by Gene Williamson
|Axilea, perhaps many share the despair but oh so few,
I suggest, share the brilliance and erudition to sing
about it with such uninhibited poetic power. -gene.
|Reviewed by D. Vaineo
|Axilea, You have outdone yourself,'Magnificient'! I would agree with Christine...feeling confinement and not knowing where to exit. This is one of your many best!!
|Reviewed by stan nassano
|I get the feeling of "being" trapped inside the whale....bobbing alon,pulled by the powerful currents.....just remember to breath|
|Reviewed by Terry Rizzuti
|I'm with Jerry. I read it as writer's block too, but more likely it's more, much more. Great stuff, Axilea.|
|Reviewed by Christine Tsen
|I feel this one deeply, the weariness, the sleepless nights, the feeling trapped...to me this is about allowing the healing tides of life to take over and allowing them to take us where we need to go.
|Reviewed by Douglas Bentley
|Too many people think
You're born to die
Then there are those that
sit around all day and whine
Something tells me I would catch you dancing.
Always in the twilight of a golden silk dress.
Your body a silhouette . . . .
|Reviewed by Liana Margiva
|EXCELLENT !!!!!!!!!!!!! '...a wound that never dries so you hide'...'love and hate intertwined ricocheting whiteness from the lightening of pain somewhere met'--------I LOVE THIS!!!!!!!!!! Liana Margiva|
|Reviewed by John Flanagan
|That 'you' is rather frightening to me,
a somewhat eerie alter ego in conflict
with the conscious voice...the artist
attempting - very successfully in the context
of this work! - to come to terms with self.
and that 'media noche' has the dimensions of
'the hour of the wolf'
You stir me, Axilea, stir me a lot.
|Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
|WoW! I don't believe I have ever read a more profound piece of work concerning the inability to write. This is a work of art. Writer's block has never felt so good before. At least I hope that was what this poem was about. It was about that to me anyway.|