A few scattered bones Some tea leaves A broken compact Scant evidence Silent and troubling Miles high The sky is full With the empty promise of heaven Down here? Who knows Two people Maybe more But only one had thought “We are friends” A breeze Like a fever Spends itself It sweeps through a stand of yellow pine Parting ‘round telephone poles Combing through fields of green wheat And gently brushing the wildflowers The wildflowers play no part Though their pollen has spread everywhere And lays over everything The remains settle With the evening A dog makes an important discovery But no one will ever know The night rises A careless witness to The birds the leaves the air and flying insects The worms and voles the bit players the extras the vagrants the coincidence of heat and damp and soil and rot All of it All of it Is evidence All of it Collected and collecting The weather 500 miles away A bird in a cat’s mouth The chipped edge of a floral China tea cup Bits of tea in a shallow pool A broken compact Reflecting a rye smile
So beautifully expressed the tragic theme of the poem. I love: "The sky is full with empty promise of heaven." Remarkable note about two people, "Only one had thought /We are friends."
The last four lines of the last stanza logically repeat the theme of the poem and the image of the chipped teacup, broken compact, reflecting a rye smile is devastating, for me.
I know if I get a comment from Larisa, that I’ve done something beyond my fully conscious intentions. Thank you. I hope it’s clear enough that the rye refers to whiskey (the corruption of rye) as well as malevolence. That the perpetrator is still present at the scene, and that the perpetrator may be us, the witnesses. It’s so hard to know what gets across when using so few words. I don’t know any poets but the ones I’ve met here and the dead who I read. Your comments are invaluable and I very much appreciate them and you.
Arthur, this is heartbreakingly poignant, and so dear to my heart. Sometimes I think how by thinking about the marginalized we are marginalizing a whole lot, and I can never quite catch myself running where margins no longer matter. If that makes sense!
Mahdi my friend, Yes!! I have trouble sorting it out too. My response to Larisa’s comments absolutely apply to your comments. I never know what gets through because by the time I post I’ve read and edited the poem dozens of times or more. By that time, I hardly know what I’m aiming at; just feeling my way through language.
Thanks for those words Paul. You’re so right. I only know that after reading it and rereading it countless times, no words or phrases demanded changing. So long as they put up a fight we stay in the ring. I only give up when they give up. I suppose it could be said that we fight to a draw.
So beautifully expressed the tragic theme of the poem. I love: "The sky is full with empty promise of heaven." Remarkable note about two people, "Only one had thought /We are friends."
The last four lines of the last stanza logically repeat the theme of the poem and the image of the chipped teacup, broken compact, reflecting a rye smile is devastating, for me.
I know if I get a comment from Larisa, that I’ve done something beyond my fully conscious intentions. Thank you. I hope it’s clear enough that the rye refers to whiskey (the corruption of rye) as well as malevolence. That the perpetrator is still present at the scene, and that the perpetrator may be us, the witnesses. It’s so hard to know what gets across when using so few words. I don’t know any poets but the ones I’ve met here and the dead who I read. Your comments are invaluable and I very much appreciate them and you.
Arthur, this is heartbreakingly poignant, and so dear to my heart. Sometimes I think how by thinking about the marginalized we are marginalizing a whole lot, and I can never quite catch myself running where margins no longer matter. If that makes sense!
🕊️
Mahdi
Mahdi my friend, Yes!! I have trouble sorting it out too. My response to Larisa’s comments absolutely apply to your comments. I never know what gets through because by the time I post I’ve read and edited the poem dozens of times or more. By that time, I hardly know what I’m aiming at; just feeling my way through language.
What a lovely contemplation on the nature of the evidence of existence and its inevitable dissolution.
Thanks so much Sylvia. Always a pleasure to hear from the thoughtful crowd.
Yes!
Wow, that was fast.
We never know if what we write “gets through,” Arthur, or if the words we use and how we feel about them is shared by others.
Thanks for those words Paul. You’re so right. I only know that after reading it and rereading it countless times, no words or phrases demanded changing. So long as they put up a fight we stay in the ring. I only give up when they give up. I suppose it could be said that we fight to a draw.
I just trust readers to understand. If they don't understand, I'll try again. As Sam Beckett said, "Fail Better"