I took a walk, until the walk took me
and brought me to places where my conscience wouldn’t go
- chlorophyll green of leaves dreamt
where chrome grey and dead leaves that crack under my feet abound -
the chloroform of fake bonds no longer kept me asleep,
the breath that crept up on me on the craggy path
now swept away by the painful light that cut the mist in two,
endurance slowly turned into
the quiet of an open landscape
of frozen taupe earth and soft gravel.
The walk took me to the painter’s spot:
a privileged view of the city’s stones
and chapels wrapped up in nature,
the roundness of hills never overcome
by the austerity of winter,
the sound of brass church bells
soon carried away by a purring motor scooter.
Uphill, to the writer’s spot, I took a walk -
to the place where I opened the box
of all the treacherous gifts that were given to me,
of former creeds and futile feathers,
finally allowed to fly with the dead leaves.
It was drizzling, and before I left,
I kept a quill so that in the warmth of my room,
I could write some words,
until the words wrote me.
I've felt like this before, and you have captured the moment very well! Every word like a dab of paint upon my mind's easel, is well placed and I feel them! Superb poem in my opinion, Axilea.
So much to like about this one Axilea, from the walk to the exposure of those treacherous gifts, you blend us into the emotional tie of your thoughts up to the finality of those ....
This is a poem meant for lingering... it's a walk into evocation that calls forth plenty of viewpoints and picnic places. Here we can breathe easy and enjoy the wide open spaces of your thoughts and mind's eye. I can also readily break this poem into two parts (because of the echo in similarity of first lines stanzas 2 and 3, and of the first and ultimate last line)and although together they form a whole complete, I particularly like the stark contrasts in second half: it tells such a story in only nine lines and has a real gestalt to it. I feel like I've climbed a beautiful mountain reading this lovely work, Axilea... and can stand at the summit and admire the broad vista you create before returning to the close, dark warmth of privatge rooms. Excellent, thank you. xx
Reviewed by Peter Schlosser (Reader)
Reviewed on December 2, 2009
Damn, this is amazing! Brilliant stuff. I love the whole concept of "taking a walk and the walk took me." Superb!!!!
Reviewed by Gianetta Ellis (Reader)
Reviewed on December 2, 2009
Beautiful, Axilea. Your words and images are highly relatable. You take us unreservedly into your mood, your experience, your world.
Axilea,
A quiet place, a room of one's own, I'm taken back momentarily to Virgina Woolf, and your writing has an equal depth, resonance and intensity...how well you explore and evoke...
This is a Lion Pygma -- Pygmalion spelled backwards? When I was little, I used to watch different people come into church, and try to match husbands with their last-minute-get-the-kids-thru-the-doors wives. I was right much more often with older couples, and I reasoned it was because the longer the two were together, the more alike they looked. They ate the same meals, shopped the same stores, but more than that, there was something of the essence of the one in the other's face and bearing.
It must be the same thing with poetry-- the longer an image is burned into your retinas-- a thought/idea caught in your incubating muse-- a scent cozied in your inner cavities-- a feeling reconjurred in your heart-- the more all of these, the more your writes embody the essence of them, and like the old woman who you can just tell is a kindly person-- or the old man, a grump-- I'll bet your facial features show something of poetic insight-- rustling leaves dance behind your eyes-- drizzling beauty, the shadow on your wall-- the roundness of hills, your cheeks-- half-opened boxes, the crooked smile on your lips. --Charlie
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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~Z.B.McClure
Ron
words...
truly nice work...
Art Sun...
I took a walk, until the walk took me
and brought me to places where my conscience wouldn’t go
and progress into the inner world of creativity:
I kept a quill so that in the warmth of my room,
I could write some words,
until the words wrote me.
- David
Regis
fee
A quiet place, a room of one's own, I'm taken back momentarily to Virgina Woolf, and your writing has an equal depth, resonance and intensity...how well you explore and evoke...
John
until the words wrote me.
And so it came to pass, Axilea.
And what words. Great writing.
-gene.
God bless you!
Love,
Susan
It must be the same thing with poetry-- the longer an image is burned into your retinas-- a thought/idea caught in your incubating muse-- a scent cozied in your inner cavities-- a feeling reconjurred in your heart-- the more all of these, the more your writes embody the essence of them, and like the old woman who you can just tell is a kindly person-- or the old man, a grump-- I'll bet your facial features show something of poetic insight-- rustling leaves dance behind your eyes-- drizzling beauty, the shadow on your wall-- the roundness of hills, your cheeks-- half-opened boxes, the crooked smile on your lips. --Charlie