elegies on space

on the edge of the world
between the glass light
“terrible, terrible,”
he says, while fishing with
a pole, in plain sight of the
beast who lives
on the edge of the world

*

the men who sing, the man who sleeps
between the covers of night and day,
who recounts the days in flights and rakes
the earth with only his wake

*

troubled mimes, incessant chimes, / the irony of the moon outside of time.

I sit among the rubble of / a tree unfleshed, bare and brown, / and recite the memory of the jungle / with a crown on my head, / ensnared to the ground

*

a sweet lullaby, loosely played / upon a lyre of ruined waves, / dead against the pale stone shore, / they lie alone, drawn without care, / fraught upon a dream of dearth, / wishing upon a reddish hearth

*

sliver, silver, memories of ice, / casting down their truancy of price, / we cast our crowns into the sky, / understanding nothing except the lies: / they speak to us in tones as soft / as heart-felt moons left alone too soon

*

cascades, torrential waterscrapes, / flooding among the valleys of noon, / madness descending, upon a calm lake, / the boat in the middle, the fisherman with his pole: / “oh dearie dear, my fearlie fear, come to me, / upon this midnight clear, sincerely yours, / the Mariner,” / he says upon his boat of gold, / although it is not gold he is so bold, / and as he sinks into the drown / he fits a knot into his scowl, / and cries to the clouds in a loud, loud voice: / “I am not dead nor ever was, / fear me world, if you canst know how!”

*

where are the ravens? / where are the crows? / where are the birds that roost in my toes? / can you not see them? / can you not see? / are your eyes so blind as you smell rosemary? / I carry on flightily, / singing on mightily, / rarely unaware of my trespass fortnightily, / yet scarce do I know / of that terrible hole, / in which lies the greatest of lies, / that all men are liars, / and I am the bride

*

my heroes sleep in castles not found, / hidden in the depths of time unsound, / they pound and pound the terrible town / and wake the memories under the ground, / but here I lay, my bones on the earth, / my mind in the clouds, / my heart filled with mirth, / and wakefully I dream of time’s better seen, / of heroes in castles, / asleep on the green

fnis(i)?

5 comments
clarionj
clarionj

I hate commenting after one quick read because there's a lot going on here, but I love how you manage the sounds, sometimes a Poe-like, sometimes a haunted nursery rhyme, sometimes just music. And I like the repetitions, how the images recur and build. Also, the concreteness of the fishing pole and boat, something old and rooted for us, with everything untangible. Memory references and crowns, all summed up nicely in the last stanza. Love all the wordplay too, and things like lies with lies, with liars, then bride, and found, pound, town, ground and how how assonance abounds. Great fun and a very mystical, magical feeling that seems to apply to our current world.

clarionj
clarionj

And further: Do you know of places to send things like this? So many places don't want rhyme, which is ridiculous. I think it's coming back and hope you know of some good places to send.

Diaskeaus
Diaskeaus

I wish I did, but I don't. That's one of the reasons why almost all of my poetry has been online, actually. Although rhyme has been a recent thing for me. Generally I despise it, but sometimes it just comes. Thanks for your comments!