Sable

Something unknown

whispers

shouts inside

reduces arguement

to sand

leaves peace

to grow roots

extending

toe nail smiles

into abstract

intense fields

of vision

behind closed

eyes - and

awakens demon

spirit of old - 

now understood,

in dormant

volcanic blood

bubbling, squeezing,

coughing to life

Ancient myths

and painting rock

nectarine poetry walls

with salmon blood

and hand prints

Reviews

[Eilis]

Two different things I see when I read this. First, there’s almost this sense of being a corpse in a coffin, in total darkness—but not unaware. So, the body departed but the mind still trying to work things out. I watched this new version of A Christmas Carol over the holidays and Jacob Marley was still aware in his grave, kind of cursed to keep thinking and feeling. When a kid came to piss on his grave, the piss seeped through the ground and dripped in his eyes. And there he was trapped in the purgatory of his endless afterlife powerless to respond to the insult. Of anything.

But, also when I read this, I see a man with his back turned, watching the dances of torch light on a cave wall. A kind of primal connection to the past—the endless ancestry of ourselves and our unknown connections.

So, there’s this push/pull between the infinite and the inwardness. The undefinable size of our spirits alongside the tangible experience that does indeed define us.

It’s a very undersense kind of poem, to my mind. Like astral projection or something similar. One of the oddities of being human is that you can live through many things but maybe never really understand them. And then the things you never live can be such vivid presences in the mind.

I hope some day to be able to understand the mystery of mind. Which can at intervals be both tomb and cave of unknown treasures. The connections inherent and growing there are like a great unexplored universe of which we’ve only seen/sensed the margin.

Probably have just blathered about something completely unrelated to your poem, but this is where the words and images took me. Someplace both mystical and painfully/beautifully human where we face ourselves and don’t exactly know what to say.

I enjoyed the known/unknown sense of things crashing into one another here. The poem makes a spirit impression. Much like those lingering hand prints on cave walls.

[gram linski]

loving the beard, lol, that movie sounds like a cheery xmas affair, not really sure about this one myself this was an invisible hand print, moment, thanks for reading, Eilis, and for seeing so deeply