Monday, December 27, 2010

The Homemade Wine of the Picaro

For Tom

Sestinas make the finest stories, so says the dramaturge
who may as well be Wordsworth
or Scheherazade for all it matters
when we hear that blizzard burying our houses.
He swears we'll wake one morning
to our knitting clubs dissolved
subsumed by a new Prometheus
with a voice like the South Wales coast
who'll speak of our predicament
to make it matter to anyone but poets.

Outside, the blizzard of scriveners
buries all our verses
but we can almost hear that voice above it
the howl of time's inferno
seething the immortal
but the cry is too familiar
that seems come from the center,
this raging out of nowhere,
it's for attention, nothing more
and would take your voice if you let it.

The quest for immortality never ends
and there's no black swan in the white snowfall
this morning, just gusts of snowdrift grit
to powder windows over
like furnace ash from hellfire smoke
on whorls of desert dunes
and statuary statuesque with boughs of hanging marble.
There's no great voice inside these swirls
just nature's inescapable poem
that makes where I sit the center of its roiling.


Jingle said...

snow weather is bitter cold,
your words are beautiful and exciting...

lovely flow.
keep up the excellence.

Jingle said...


I invite you to become a participant at Thursday Poets Rally Week 36…

Entry your entry here 4 Poets Rally Week 36 and sign agreement if you wish

That’s a better way to make poetic friends, and have your talent directly exposed to fellow poets.
Poetry awards are to be given upon completion.

Hope to see you in, Happy Friday, best wishes for the year of 2011.


Margaret Bednar said...

A lot to imagine in this poem. Very beautiful. I love "nature's inescapable poem" So very true. She never disappoints.

Greyscale Territory said...

My favourite image must be "the howl of time's inferno"...dramatic, Dantean metaphor! A rich poem laden with legendary echoes in a newly found cave!

Anonymous said...

Interesting piece, happy rally!

Tom King said...

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Couldn’t see anything: blizzard. Whatever was out there is buried. Like Thoreau observed, the night enhances your voice, what is to you immortal, obvious as the snow.
Whatever oblivious by letting it snow was not what was the matter. I mean the essential part, immortal. Like a blizzard. You look for a voice but it’s the first thing buried.
Matthew Arnold wrote “The Buried Life” when he was 29. He felt the snow close around him, while his voice was left, hardly real matter, ourselves “one little hour” in the unreal blizzard that seems to be the only thing immortal.
Wordsworth wrote “Ode: Intimations of Immortality” when he was ____, and few knew where Lucy was buried, but he knew in his blizzard of words and snow of meaning that simple matter to him, among others, Lucy’s voice.
I hear Leopardi’s voice as good as immortal saying the matter of his poems became not poetry but poetry buried in philosophy’s snow, not a young person’s blizzard.
One must have a mind of blizzard to behold the voice shagged with snow and been immortal a long time not to be buried in the same bare matter.
I tell my daughter matter is to blizzard as bury is to voice. Immortal is to snow.

Anonymous said...

wow! mine for this thursday: