Image by Eva the Weaver via Flickr
The cold seeping into sit bones, ground down, making contact with pine boards long forgotten. Naked, chemical layers peeled away leaving four-inch planks marred, splintered. Never recovered after the well ran dry.
The shack became refuge for four-legged prowlers, shelter seekers hiding from rain clouds banging thunder. How grateful we were, two-legged invaders, that sharing meant opening; a monk, a student, and feral beasts; our woodland roofed sanctuary.
He approached each morning; sun radiating around him, dusty rays beaming magnetic particles sideways. Wise eyes brightly lit inside. His voice, organic, cultivated honey, soothing away dreamtime worry.
“Here.”
Opening cupped hands, purpling with January’s wind; cradling black loam bundling white spindly, fibrous lace. Silently wondering, what bind will he remove today.
“One who can identify this flower sees true beauty.”
Fabric whispered past me; crisp air brushed my face. Shivering slightly, I began; breath lengthening, mind opening.
Legs became floor; hours became stars; flame became cinders; room became cave; spirit became ghost.
A match burst forth. “Did you discover the flower?”
I shook my head no.
“Did you discover the answer?”
Nodding,“I wonder.”
Pearl coloured hands wrapping cedar beads, beckoned to proceed.
“A blind man can paint a face perfectly when he truly loves.”
His smile broke open the room; hands clapped gently.
“Lesson done. Come. We dine.”
I smiled, the rooted heart never hungers. ~
Rivenrod
/ 2012/01/11You and I are exploring the same literary path. Whilst not new, narrative poetry (my term) is practised by so few probably because it is very difficult to properly construct. After so many years I have concluded that for it to be truly great requires painting word images in 3 dimensions.
Anyway I could theorise on the form for days, weeks, even years if pushed.
I like what you are writing very much Angela.
RR
libraryscenes
/ 2012/01/11RR ~
I hesitated to label this poem…yet, it seems that when I don’t think something is poetry,
inevitably someone calls it a poem (had this happen writing creative non-fiction). I’ve no idea
about construction (as I think you know per previous posts), but I try not to self-censor, letting
words fall as the vision keeps moving within.
I’m glad that this one ‘worked’ for you. It is more light than dark compared to many.
As always, more grateful for your comments. ~ angela
Rivenrod
/ 2012/01/12Well, I hope your situation allows many more words to flow. I have been thinking about your work and actually it has bitten me. Love it.
You may know I’ve been working on a piece called Ca3 etc. It too is a narrative piece combining prose, narrative poetry and structured poems where description and mood dictates. I am some way from completion even to the first stage but I would like to send it to you first if that’s ok.
RR
Carl D'Agostino
/ 2012/01/11“…hands purpling with January’s wind.”
Sherry Blue Sky
/ 2012/01/11What a beautiful, mystical read this is. It offers teachings of such beauty and wisdom. Thank you so much.
libraryscenes
/ 2012/01/11Your words are too kind, Sherry. I must say I am most grateful that it resonated. I about tossed it toward the end ~
kateshrewsday
/ 2012/01/11Oh, this is enchanting, Angela. The most perfect piece of word-and-mood painting.
nrhatch
/ 2012/01/11I quite enjoyed this meditative and poetic prose, Angela.
Thanks for sharing.
hedgewitch
/ 2012/01/11Lots of great spaces in this one–letting the mind breathe it in. We’re very preoccupied with naming and labeling and identifying–like how that all goes sideways here. Last line is especially resonant.
Cindy
/ 2012/01/11It’s an ‘other-worldly’ landscape you’ve painted here. Shades of Tolkien, I like it much
claudia
/ 2012/01/11i like the path you lead us here…looking here and there and some things not yet unveiled…but we keep on walking and then these two lines sum it up beautifully…
“A blind man can paint a face perfectly when he truly loves.” and…
“the rooted heart never hungers” – think mine is not yet fully rooted…smiles
Louise Jaques
/ 2012/01/13Just wonderful. The stilted dialogue is very effective, as are your succint, crisp descriptions, especially “hands purpling January’s wind.”
Thomas Davis
/ 2012/01/22This is first rate poetry, Angela. The narrative is strong. It keeps us reading as mystery clouds like a thunderhead beginning for a small smudge into a towering column of threat. I like the conversation. Then the denouement, the moment that makes this a prose poem, when the revelation is revealed to the “teacher.” This is really fine work.