Sunday, January 11, 2009

Blood and Tree:

David, (the present and third one
In our tree) wonders at this winter’s game
Of matching faces on these faded cartes de visite
With the names of long dead kin. What
Life, he asks, is in it? And of ourselves,
The lives we’ve animated, stored in our
Machines in bits and pieces – surely future
People, sinking in the muck hole we have
Made them - the tainted air and poisoned
Springs – will disdain to read or even see
The mountains of data in the garbage
We leave. Good question.

And someone, maybe Shakespeare
Rambled on about the seed
of beauty,
Traveling through the tubes of flesh,
Popping out in successive generations
With its charms refreshed
For yet another round of adoration
Or neglect. The beloved being perfect
Only if
It will produce desired effects
And the wreck of unrequited love
Translated into mighty song.

Our individual lives fall
From the twigs, faded or
Glorious, as the
Forces of decay
Prevail
And every furling second in
The sun is writ into the veins –
One has a shape that catches
The fire of the sun, another’s cut
To lace-work by the ravening worm
And all descend to common earth
Where shape’s undone.

In the dark center of
The old ancestral grove
The ground beneath the trunks
Is slick as glass with hlaut
Nine of every kind are hung
And drip
Their life-force on
The earth from which the trees
Have sprung.
There are no walls, and only
Gibbets to confirm
It is the place where god
And man conjoin. Here who dares
approach the runes stained
With red and black may hear
The things they sign for
Whispered by a creaking
Voice, death’s weight
Bearing on the branch and rope.

Voice X: “All-father! Why
Hast thou forsaken us?”

The corpses in a choir say hush
This is no place for your impertinence. The horror
Of forced brevity is like a hum
Made by a spinning lathe. Science has come
And its knowing moderates
between
Enlightened shine and
Bloodthirst for things, or so
We’d like to think. Our clay is ever
Mixed with gore, and our war
With the ancient dinosaurs of frost
And fire
Won’t come out well – eventually
We lose.

But lest we dwell on loss
too much, remember;
divination is a game – the faces and the names
upon the cards tell what we wish
and what we fear; where from,
where to; the barricades of too
little and too much… It’s a
whetstone
for the honing of a thought -

(Voice X: “A god’s no more than a horse
to ride upon.”)

- and on
this thread, like spider’s web
allow
the word weaver’s art
to suspend
our hope anon.

4 comments:

David said...

I guess Shakespeare, in a darker mood, would describe

The seeds coming forth from the tube of flesh
undigested
lodged in a loaf
like a corn not chewed
like a broken hard drive
like a meaningless twitter

The descendant speaks:
"I just rose from my throne
Turned around for inspection
Stuff in load
Need to masticate not wolf
Flushed 7:07 AM"

Posterity

Dan Dutton said...

Ha! (voice x-lax)

Cathy said...

HEE HEE HEE! Thanks for the morning giggle, guys.

Dan Dutton said...

I think this is what's called an earthy sense of humor.