There is a warm wind
that some don’t know,
their skin deeply burned
long ago, much too long
ago.
An armor replaced
the living tissue
and became part of them,
while the body reacted:
dull pain and cry,
necrosis of the skin
under the heavy metal plate.
Maybe it was too late,
when compassionately a soul
sensed the sorrow
that is like music hushed
long ago,
so long ago…
The memory of feelings
remote and distorted,
an image from a distant dream
that they tried to mimic,
and mimicking they lost
all meaning.
Somewhere in the system,
below the surface,
under the armor
that sticks to the wound
and infects it forever,
is the shameful scar
of long ago.
The compassionate soul
gets hurt and burned
by deep decay
in a heart that can’t feel,
hidden behind the steel.
Yet she will let
her own skin breathe
and shiver
with the morning truth,
with the perennial beauty
of vital pain and joy,
leaving room
for the warm wind that soothes
the wounds of now
and of long ago.
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Reviews of "Old metal plate"
Reviewed by Matthew Wright (Reader)
Reviewed on September 2, 2009
Really like this one. Creates some strong images. Nice use of rhyme too.
Wow! I lied... This is definitely my favorite of yours. This is just...superb! I can so totally relate to this analogy of an old metal plate.
Thank you.
Such imagery, strength and power in this Axilea. I want to say one of your best, but I'm a fan of just about everything you write. This goes into my library.
And Ozma begat Ozletta
And Ozletta begat Oxina,
And Oxina begat Axilea
And for the space of 150 years there was peace in the Land of Oz,
mostly, that is, because in the Land of the Winkies where the Yellow men dwell, there was sadness and decay...
his oilcan two steps away...
And for all the fact that his heart kept ticking,
(one could see this through his rust-rotted chest)
And for all that the wind kept wispering
(It was very sunny, but he did his best)...
The body was still....
And she dreamed that she was he,
and that her heart was merely a clock keeping time--
ticking out words-- finding a rhyme,
and that her soul was wind-weary
and covered with rust.
But rough gingham on a sunburned arm
can sometimes move in such a way
(in a warm-warm wind)
that awakens...
And certain things come to life again,
like dreams, meshing with reality.
The warm wind brings the scent of a faintly stinky dog to her...
"Toto!" She calls. And he and the wind... they lick her wounds together...
That warm wind that flows from your words is felt in this soul. Hard to destroy the human spirit, Axilea. One's essence, especially that of a woman, is to embrace life--and that requires the capacity to hope...what your last lines reveal in spite of the pain. Very fine...
I admire the strength and hope in your writing, Axilea...
here the release from the prison of painful memories captured
so skillfully in these powerful lines:
Yet she will let
her own skin breathe
and shiver
with the morning truth...
Axilea,
The scars of living we all bear and often artificial pains that deny us experiencing the real ones, "vital pain and joy"
This challenges me and makes me sit up straight, good poetry does that.
John
So many people live with deep pain and hurt. Your poem touches those places but soothes them also.
Nicely done, good to see you writing here on the den again. Have missed you very much!
The emotional flow of sadness and perhaps a little dispair at what time and age can do to one's soul pulls on the heart strings of the reader. I felt like I was actually listening to you do the narrative on this in person so strong was the imagery. Well done Axilea,
hugs
Fee
Damn if that doesn't look like my skin nowadays after being in the sun & getting burned...When I was quite young I lived on the beach, no shirt & cut off jeans and my skin was as brown as that metal, but now all I do it seems is burn...I hate getting older, as I think this poem does speak of...Ed
I hope the warm wind bypasses the steel and revives the heart so it may feel again. New wounds will be endured but old ones must be forgotten,or perhaps forgiven. The soul will thrive. I like this poem. Patrick
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Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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and life! So inspiring!
Ron
Thank you.
Cryssa
And Ozma begat Ozletta
And Ozletta begat Oxina,
And Oxina begat Axilea
And for the space of 150 years there was peace in the Land of Oz,
mostly, that is, because in the Land of the Winkies where the Yellow men dwell, there was sadness and decay...
his oilcan two steps away...
And for all the fact that his heart kept ticking,
(one could see this through his rust-rotted chest)
And for all that the wind kept wispering
(It was very sunny, but he did his best)...
The body was still....
And she dreamed that she was he,
and that her heart was merely a clock keeping time--
ticking out words-- finding a rhyme,
and that her soul was wind-weary
and covered with rust.
But rough gingham on a sunburned arm
can sometimes move in such a way
(in a warm-warm wind)
that awakens...
And certain things come to life again,
like dreams, meshing with reality.
The warm wind brings the scent of a faintly stinky dog to her...
"Toto!" She calls. And he and the wind... they lick her wounds together...
--Charlie
Lin
powerful imagery and psycho-intensive motif ...
here the release from the prison of painful memories captured
so skillfully in these powerful lines:
Yet she will let
her own skin breathe
and shiver
with the morning truth...
Your writing as always a rewarding experience.
-gene.
The scars of living we all bear and often artificial pains that deny us experiencing the real ones, "vital pain and joy"
This challenges me and makes me sit up straight, good poetry does that.
John
Regis
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Nicely done, good to see you writing here on the den again. Have missed you very much!
Peace, love, and light,
Amber "V"
hugs
Fee