Americana - Appalachian- Poetry - Pilgrimage - David Hightower - spiritual - family - farm house
PILGRIMAGE
Summer pilgrim, I climb
to the ancient attic
of my uncle’s farmhouse.
Step stealthily over the top stair
past the rectangular hole in the wall
that hoards darkness like a held breath.
Opposite, a tall window
squints into sunlight.
Yellowed newspapers lure me
onto the faded page of a Korean battlefield.
I march with my uncle across Asian snow.
Eerie bugle notes sound all round its borders.
Headlines forever wonder if the First Cavalry
can capture that bridge,
can cross that river,
can save their colors.
A pygmy tribe wanders National Geographic.
Barefoot and naked, innocent as birth,
they invite me to feast on serpent flesh
as they unwind the coils from my chest.
The tiny Samaritans lead me
down invisible trails,
but refuse to journey
beyond the boundary of their world.
Unstable skyscrapers of encyclopedias
tempt me to explore their musty floors.
I inhale their dusty knowledge,
and double check their facts,
but cannot find what I seek
within the tilted tower.
Interesting but incomplete,
they offer me no comfort.
Fire and brimstone pamphlets
hold a mad revival,
stone me with curses of damnation,
crucify me between twin gods
of heaven and hell.
I tear myself from the bloody nails,
bind the wounds with Christmas decorations,
and stumble into the fields of Progressive Farmer.
I burrow my pain into cool earth;
and meditate on my cousin’s plywood universe
of rubberball planets and painted stars.
Beyond the dirty white moon
and the cracked yellow sun
I glimpse a face of pity
that whispers a secret healing
to discarded dolls broken beyond forgiveness.
I glimpse a face of pity
that whispers a secret healing
to discarded dolls broken beyond forgiveness--these lines hold such depth, power and feeling!
Reviewed by Kate Burnside
Reviewed on May 1, 2009
A pilgrimage through your uncle's summer attic is certainly a tour de force that endures, David. We are breathing secrets and mysteries of truth and spirituality that permeate heaven and earth in the haven of this sacred space that journeys through worlds and minds. Your living language and concrete imagery enables us to grasp and hold this cornucopia of soul-expanding plenty. Thank you. What a wonderful place to be! Kate xx
There is a strong presence in everything you describe
and in every word that you write in this piece.
It is inhabited by memory and a personal sense of spirituality,
I think.
I love the description of
"Unstable skyscrapers of encyclopedias"
and how naturally you end up with
"I inhale their dusty knowledge,
and double check their facts,
but cannot find what I seek
within the tilted tower.
Interesting but incomplete,
they offer me no comfort"
The last stanza is also exceptional,
each physical detail leads us to a metaphysical vision
where finally words like
"pity", "healing" and "forgiveness"
stand out as a path to follow.
Superb.
Loved "the dirty white moon" and "the cracked yellow sun" references. The past holds a paralyzing hold on us until time allows us to put it in perspective and "sweet forgiveness" to put it in it's place. Although there is no forgetting. Great write, David...
You take us from one plane to the next without missing a beat. I got "nailed" on the crucifix bit, and was glad you had those Christmas decorations handy too.
Incidently, I just finished re-reading "The Good Earth" by Pearl Buck, so your next couple of lines were especially cleansing to me. So thoroughly refreshed, I was ready to wander the cracked heavens with you and marvel at the well-loved dolls.
As with all of your poetry, your imagery is fresh and vivid-- from the similie of the dark holding it's breath, to the discarded dolls "broken beyond forgiveness". Love it all. --Charlie
Hello David,
Reading a new poem by you is a great start for the day. Your poem is written with the imagery a good poem should have. I felt like I was there and could even smell the dust and other aromas of things past. The entire poems is wonderful but the last lines are pure genius:
Beyond the dirty white moon
and the cracked yellow sun
I glimpse a face of pity
that whispers a secret healing
to discarded dolls broken beyond forgiveness.
(I hope to find this poem in my in-box soon)
Happy Day,
Marcia
Your imagery makes everything come alive. When I read your poetry you draw me into a real world and I live it instead of reading it...
Your last three lines are my favorite.
"...past the rectangular hole on the wall,
that hoards darkness like a held breath..."
That is not poetry, that's a sublime state of mind that shares with us those secret feelings and chaotic thoughts like and stingy bee from one flesh skin to another leaving before any pain is felt, and yet, leaving a literary impression back, inside the eyes of the reader.
David, you have taken us on a trip through history as seen by your uncle through your eyes. You write with such clarity and depth. These lines, "Step stealthily over the top stair past the rectangular hole in the wall that hoards darkness like a held breath," and your final three sentences...there are no words to express the beauty and feeling behind your talent. You always amaze me and never disappoint.
Dear David, what a nice poem which brought me to your uncle's farmhouse. It reminds me of my grandma's house. You describe it so well, I could imagine all the "Treasures" that you found. It is part of every family. Thank you for shatring, love Emile
David,
This journey is pilgrimage indeed, a delve into the attic of history, emotion, image, recall, and is absolutely beautiful..."...the rectangular hole in the wall that hoards darkness like a held breath"
and "...they invite me to feast on serpent flesh as they unwind the coils from my chest," are just two of the many brilliances in this poem, and the last three lines take my breath away.
I'm fascinated, David, by your pilgrimage into the dusty past.
And by your precision poetic skill that permits me to go along.
So many great lines, here, that I would have to repeat the
entire poem to quote my favorites. But surely I would have to
highlight the following:
Step stealthily over the top stair
past the rectangular hole in the wall
that hoards darkness like a held breath
Contraband Marriage, traveling along the hemline of loving after incarceration, is a love story written in lyric and free form, set in reality with a different ever after.
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that whispers a secret healing
to discarded dolls broken beyond forgiveness--these lines hold such depth, power and feeling!
and in every word that you write in this piece.
It is inhabited by memory and a personal sense of spirituality,
I think.
I love the description of
"Unstable skyscrapers of encyclopedias"
and how naturally you end up with
"I inhale their dusty knowledge,
and double check their facts,
but cannot find what I seek
within the tilted tower.
Interesting but incomplete,
they offer me no comfort"
The last stanza is also exceptional,
each physical detail leads us to a metaphysical vision
where finally words like
"pity", "healing" and "forgiveness"
stand out as a path to follow.
Superb.
Axilea
Thought provoking as well.
~Gwendolyn
You take us from one plane to the next without missing a beat. I got "nailed" on the crucifix bit, and was glad you had those Christmas decorations handy too.
Incidently, I just finished re-reading "The Good Earth" by Pearl Buck, so your next couple of lines were especially cleansing to me. So thoroughly refreshed, I was ready to wander the cracked heavens with you and marvel at the well-loved dolls.
As with all of your poetry, your imagery is fresh and vivid-- from the similie of the dark holding it's breath, to the discarded dolls "broken beyond forgiveness". Love it all. --Charlie
Cheers,
Dan
Reading a new poem by you is a great start for the day. Your poem is written with the imagery a good poem should have. I felt like I was there and could even smell the dust and other aromas of things past. The entire poems is wonderful but the last lines are pure genius:
Beyond the dirty white moon
and the cracked yellow sun
I glimpse a face of pity
that whispers a secret healing
to discarded dolls broken beyond forgiveness.
(I hope to find this poem in my in-box soon)
Happy Day,
Marcia
Your last three lines are my favorite.
Superb poetry, as always!
Cryssa
that hoards darkness like a held breath..."
That is not poetry, that's a sublime state of mind that shares with us those secret feelings and chaotic thoughts like and stingy bee from one flesh skin to another leaving before any pain is felt, and yet, leaving a literary impression back, inside the eyes of the reader.
Georg
This journey is pilgrimage indeed, a delve into the attic of history, emotion, image, recall, and is absolutely beautiful..."...the rectangular hole in the wall that hoards darkness like a held breath"
and "...they invite me to feast on serpent flesh as they unwind the coils from my chest," are just two of the many brilliances in this poem, and the last three lines take my breath away.
John
And by your precision poetic skill that permits me to go along.
So many great lines, here, that I would have to repeat the
entire poem to quote my favorites. But surely I would have to
highlight the following:
Step stealthily over the top stair
past the rectangular hole in the wall
that hoards darkness like a held breath
Thank you, David. -gene.