I have not been writing, and this is an attempt to crawl back, or rather pick-axe or sledge-hammer my way out of a trenchant case of writer's monololith. As I told a friend, the apes are not helping at all. I've been pondering the problem of the L word, which (not the word) is so possessive and leads to so much pain. And yet. Leonard Cohen's "Avalanche," the most beautiful song I've heard in ages, also inspired the following. The title is from one of its lines. (All TNR: troubles with editor.)
Beneath the Golden Hill
I've captured you, my darling one
but you will never know.
No cage or pen will hold you,
not wire, bullet, bow.
For you would circle ceaselessly
in tears of endless woe,
ripple fierce, writhing --
crippled, cracked, slow.
Could we but raise
all watery graves
we'd drown no more, no more, my heart,
but be as children again,
in joy encased,
sorrow-less, chaste,
tame, and savagely safe.
Though you've been a way too long, it appears you returned
with a smash hit, Julie. Fascinated by your artwork; moreso
by your most interesting rhyme scheme...and haunting desire
for the innocence of childhood. -gene.
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
Reviewed on October 30, 2009
Since my childhood wasn't all that pleasant I'll pass on going back, but I love your way with words / Very well constructed . . .
Don't know what happened to the review Julie. ADA's (authors den aliens) or perhaps a rapacious alphabet python sucked it down into some part of its long muscled body to shit it out later as some defiled iambic pentameter. Sooo ....
To me the poem is palpable and speaks of a love, once vibrant and whelming, now lost. Death seems to be the culprit - I say this because of your third stanza plays, and also how the figure in the painting is clutching the hand as if she is remembering a touch that once produced life and passion.
But then ... I see a metaphor also for a part of someones artistic life that was once alive and vigorous that has gone through its cycle of seasons. Is it a self-portrait?
Happy trails ...
r
The songs and art in this book are about our collective emergence after the pandemic and trauma of the last few years - comprised of 5 collections: World as Refuge, Where We Live, In Our Hands, Rhythms of Change and What We See & Sow.
The songs and art in this book are about our collective emergence after the pandemic and trauma of the last few years - comprised of 5 collections: World as Refuge, Where We Live, In Our Hands, Rhythms of Change and What We See & Sow.
David Hightower’s lyrically expansive meditation on the whims of fate and the unpredictability of the human condition fill the pages of THE HANGING MAN DREAMS with thrilling music and mesmerizing imagery. Hightower’s richly infused voice echoes the e
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with a smash hit, Julie. Fascinated by your artwork; moreso
by your most interesting rhyme scheme...and haunting desire
for the innocence of childhood. -gene.
in joy encased,
sorrow-less, chaste,
tame, and savagely safe.
Yes. It would be very nice to regain all of that, Juli. Love and best wishes,
Regis
To me the poem is palpable and speaks of a love, once vibrant and whelming, now lost. Death seems to be the culprit - I say this because of your third stanza plays, and also how the figure in the painting is clutching the hand as if she is remembering a touch that once produced life and passion.
But then ... I see a metaphor also for a part of someones artistic life that was once alive and vigorous that has gone through its cycle of seasons. Is it a self-portrait?
Happy trails ...
r
hugs
feee
(((HUGS))) and love, karla.