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Author Name: Freebluefish 1 Comments
Date Added: September 03, 2004 07:09:42 Average Score: (Needs 2)
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The Plowman Turns


Feathers & wax
Genius & child
marble & history
intertwined in linear B patches:
live on as shadows casted in letters,
all because of the length
& the grammar of thread.
Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos
bronze age elements cannot stop the fall.
Logos, Eros, Meter.

Winds miles above, blows like the footfall of swans in lakes
& all the wisdom of Man & Angels
seems imprinted on leaves, pennies, and strings
(on things too small to see)
or on the form of a past lover’s body,
tracing like Braille upon the memory of fingers.
Figures of speech in remembrance
are just like feathers
when they fall nobody hears them.
Many things are not seen
from such great heights by mortal eyes
like the geography of chapters.

Some where over Kansas:
what happens--happens between the commas,
for children with homebuilt wings.
For the placement of a breast
or a nude in a painting,
or the notes of sonatas ,
cannot stop what is to befall all nouns.
For verbs are more powerful than the navel or the mind
Can any hand stop the well crafted slaughter
Of Troy or the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
or the problem of melting candles.

Youth all letters recede toward the center
--the magic of periods, commas, & hyphens--
& their spelling on the same cat- cradled vase.
Caligraphed wingtips, lines of letters ascending from Eden.

For the myth lives in mazed letters
ready to kill with bullish metaphors.
Until the strings of history finds its way inside
& then the alchemist & son must flee.
Arms in tension in apex of paper skies.
misspelling themselves as the height & the ages become steep
floating on eddies of inked stained fantasies--
& then diving back toward the devining line of the origin & chaos--
for wax has melted & youth has undone himself...
The threads are unwinding or have perhaps been cut,
can the stars retrace the path of a feather
or the planets remember the fall of a son,
or the waters the songs of a forgotten tongues?
As a boy forgets & then dies in the sea.
No milk carton for him just the spelling of his name
& flesh for fish.
It not the fall that kills you
but the sudden stop of letters:
(egressing verbiage)
Could anyone hear with blind eyes
the drowning of consonants & vowels in the world.

For letters must die liquefy
so poems can be furrowed
from the world’s misfortunes
& so the Plowman turns the plow.
Author's Notes:
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'The Plowman Turns' Copyright © Andrew Rymill
Copyright is property of the above author or group. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.
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Comments:
Comment By: Freejoia on September 6, 2004 12:26:41 AM Report
My favorite line is by John Dryden:
There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways...
and if I am correct, you sir are more eloquent. Me, I do what I can......I enjoyed this, joia




 


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