From some more grey
literally steps forward
a scarecrow soul
as we drive slowly
Of solitude’s edge
a still reminder
and of unclad survival
in a storm of litter bags
His dimly lit pupils
in some place cloudy
signal faltering presence
though instantly felt
Through metal-glass, nearly indifferent, barely sheltered, yet open to light
we see a wavering silhouette, a peircing paradox
that marks invisible frontiers, under worn brown shoes
so surely felt, in deafening traffic, so bitterly felt, so…
No more than birds we are
and need to keep flying
we cannot stop there
we cannot rest on ill frontiers
A flash of wine-red cheeks
of dimly lit pupils
as we keep driving
as we keep diving
in a grey sea
past the scarecrow soul
so captures that spacey, long-drive feel - particularly into shared wide-open spaces of the heart and mind that both conjoin and point-up relational fissures. It seems to me that both these persons are attaching "stuff" to the scarecrow, as if to dump it somewhere else. Like the "red wheelbarrow" syndrome, it's the "worn brown shoes" that do it for me... Confident and assured writing, Axilea. xx
You amazing girl, you. Look how you colored this poem. It's perfect for a blustery-ended October with Halloween just around the corner. I love those wine-red cheeks showing up finally in all that grey and brown and misty-dim-eyed litter-bag stormy-minded scenery. The scene in my mind is very much like those tinted photos in blackish brown and white with a few items colored in red. It works very well.
Another thing that makes this poem work so well, is that fourth stanza poking out from the severe others--kind of flittery and mind-searching, though never fully coming to a concrete thought, finally disolving/resolving into the next cut and dried, yet less mind-touching stanzas.
And too, the repitition in the last stanza-- that it mirrors the first, and also that it's middle lines mirror each other, driving/diving home the point so vividly illustrated.
I really like it (especially that wispy fourth stanza), and can't help but wonder WHY we keep driving/diving into that grey. Maybe it's because the soul really is a ghost--so intangible--so unchartered--so constantly flittering and changing that it's unchartable--literally impossible to pin down... and that gets me to wondering what exactly our ghosts are made of... memories? intelegence? random thoughts? impressions? All of these? (See, I can't pin it down, can I?) (music here) Ghost riders/writers in the sky...
A very good ride/write. --Charlie
Are we shadowed by conscience, are we watching the scarecrow of ourselves as we travel on? Scarecrow, an image favoured by Yeats and Eliot...the hollow men, the stuffed men, straw beings, what remains of former self? You set me off, Axilea, and I'm looking within myself as much as within your writing for 'us' and for a state of worthiness.
A further collection of poems, many from years in the Middle East, but also the California San Francisco and Central Coast areas (Santa Cruz, Carmel, Big Sur, Berkeley, etc.).
If you tend to believe romantic, passionate, masculine poetry is a thing of past eras, read "She Intrigues Me," and be swept away in the beautiful craft of a contemporary poet of love.
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Always,
Deborah
Another thing that makes this poem work so well, is that fourth stanza poking out from the severe others--kind of flittery and mind-searching, though never fully coming to a concrete thought, finally disolving/resolving into the next cut and dried, yet less mind-touching stanzas.
And too, the repitition in the last stanza-- that it mirrors the first, and also that it's middle lines mirror each other, driving/diving home the point so vividly illustrated.
I really like it (especially that wispy fourth stanza), and can't help but wonder WHY we keep driving/diving into that grey. Maybe it's because the soul really is a ghost--so intangible--so unchartered--so constantly flittering and changing that it's unchartable--literally impossible to pin down... and that gets me to wondering what exactly our ghosts are made of... memories? intelegence? random thoughts? impressions? All of these? (See, I can't pin it down, can I?) (music here) Ghost riders/writers in the sky...
A very good ride/write. --Charlie
Blessings,
Christine
John
Fee
I felt as if I was on a journey with a lost soul. Very rich in imagery and metaphors, this poem touches deeply within.
So good to see you back here, bless you.
Peace, love and light,
Amber
Regis