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» Hatrack River Forum » Active Forums » Books, Films, Food and Culture » The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case. (Page 7)

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Author Topic: The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case.
deerpark27
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I wanted to start over
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Mr. Y
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quote:
Originally posted by deerpark27:
I wanted to start over

Well... you did just turn to a new page.
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deerpark27
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Imago
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deerpark27
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I want to come at it all this time
from a different perspective,
like a butterfly that turns back
to consider its chrysalis,
pupaetic:
the shape of what was and what would be
though still surprised
by the wing flaps,
all this staggering
in thin air
etc.

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Unmaker
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Yay! You're back. Lovely. Now I get to share with you as well. Here's a poem from my forthcoming collection Shattering and Bricolage (Ink Brush Press).

Dark Blot

Strange how such a small dark blot
On so thin a rectangle of film
Should so easily wrench open the sluices of despair.
I hold it to the light, squinting,
My heart already absent from my chest,
A fledging fled before the forest burns.

You rasp some weak assertion,
Your normal boldness drained
Like a drought-stricken lake
By innervating possibilities.
I hear the word abortion
And my mind tilts off its axis.

Water on the brain. An absurd phrase,
Not nearly ominous enough.
Hydrocephalusóthe Latin weighs heavy,
Like the arcane pronouncements
Of a judge or priest, the thundering decree
Of an imperious divinity.

I insist on a second opinion,
Even as you flip through a medical text
You picked up at the library,
Moaning like a mother already bereft
When you see those bulging skulls,
Those empty eyes.

Termination. Youíre adamant. Resolute.
A childhood spent as a schizophrenicís sister
Has robbed you of the will, the compassion,
To raise such a shattered child. Or perhaps
You know a compassion I canít, an existential
Love that halts suffering before it begins.

When we learn the baby is fine,
That its umbilical cord passes over its head
Like the twining dastar of a pious Sikh,
First relief creeps into our eyes, then guilt.
We never couldíve done it, we assure each other.
But we know. We know what we are.

(First published in Red River Review)

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deerpark27
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Termination.
Strange blot,
I hold it to my heart,
our forest burns and my mind
tilted off its axis knows
we do not know
what might be.

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deerpark27
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I found the arrow you shot straight up into the sky.
Some elm tree had collapsed forcing me off the trail, and I saw the red feather buried in the dead-fall.
I slid it out easily, and I stuck it through the grommets of my old hat, a kind of joke.
You wanted blood that night, but instead you shot straight up at the stars, the moon, the sky and we all survived.
The stitching of those constellations,
the wide open eye of heaven.

You fletcher you.

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deerpark27
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And then I woke up, sweating,
trapped inside a fart cloud.
My poetics of flatulence
had, until then, hinged
on my long dead mother's lingering 'fluffies',
but this girl, well, she was a creationist,
and could hardly be blamed for this putrid dawn--
this unpunctuated disequilibrium.

[ May 27, 2014, 11:38 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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Unmaker
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Another from Shattering and Bricolage

Craft

Sometimes Iím a thief,
Sneaking into the House of Holy Writ,
Cracking open dusty tomes,
Breaking thick wax seals,
Rolling open ancient scrolls,
Stealing those heavenly lexemes,
Jotting down furtive phrases
Before slipping guilty
Back into my benighted life.

Sometimes Iím an explorer,
Plying vast, amorphous seas
Of primal thought,
Anchoring at dark atolls,
Scanning alien constellations,
Scrying sluggish sargassoes
That undulate like the torpid tresses
Of naiads and sirens
For visceral, unspoken truths.

Sometimes Iím a wanderer,
Lost in trackless deserts
Of shifting, homogenous past,
Falling for every empty mirage,
Foolishly avoiding each oasis,
Till I stumble onto the ruins
Of long-abandoned monuments
Lifted in naÔvetť by some forgotten me.
I make rubbings of opaque glyphs
And hope to decipher my own dead tongue.

Sometimes Iím a hunter,
Pursuing multi-syllabic prey
Across savannahs, through dense jungles,
Glimpsing mottled hides
As they sleekly leap and blur
Amidst the undergrowth and vines.
With luck I finally corner one
And send my bolt whizzing home,
Only to display the prize like a taxidermist,
All vital magic drained away.

Sometimes, though, Iím a child at play
Beneath the autumn trees,
And, oh! the leaves that scatter down
Upon my youthful head:
Reds and golds and burnished browns,
Piling higher and higher
Till, laughing, I can hold back no more
And I dive into drifts
Of perfect words.

(First published in Red River Review

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deerpark27
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Dont'chyano?
There are no words
for this:
(The stone's thrown)

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cmc
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years have past,
my heart has grown.

milk stains in a coffee cup
still catch my eye.

i remember cabins in woods
with shadows creeping ever closer...

i remember footfalls on stairs with one shoe on, one shoe off...

caught that stone. had a memory of mine i'm sorry i forgot.

missed the word play, the shadows falling slowly over the greatest dually played words of my life.

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Unmaker
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The stone's throne:
a well-worn depression in the grass
where attendant ants and worms
keep encroaching weeds
at bay.

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cmc
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A life on pages turned by time and different fingers
left only to the interpretation of
someone else's view of how it really might have been

Dangling, like other articles of speech or
branches of flower bushes growing in a yard
a home for a butterfly just waiting
to spread it's wings and learn to fly.

Regrets are the solid footing for a life lived
more fully once the moments leading up to them are understood.

Angels get their wings everytime

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deerpark27
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Consider this road
going nowhere
so quickly,
and you with an Empire apple,
cool from the fridge
and a stick of bright orange
Black Diamond cheddar,
like one of those birds,
moving with certainty
across the land.

[ July 14, 2014, 11:33 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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cmc
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All roads lead somewhere,
although they might not welcome you.

Apples, oranges
Oil, water
Night, day

Both fruit.
Both hold the rainbow.
Both show the sun's light.

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Unmaker
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subtle shifts in the
magnetic halo of the
world nudge
birds across the land:

what imperceptible
forces guide you
from kitchen to
sofa to car to wood

and what baroque
organ helps you
sense the soft puffs
of eldritch breath?

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deerpark27
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With tears
we flutter up,
the nest comes down,
we start again
with certainty.

[ July 18, 2014, 01:32 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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cmc
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Tides change,
pulling at times so hard
they almost seem to push
the same push that leads the wind
to gently shove a nest to the ground
leaving their former habitants to give up or
Rebuild, while blinking back tears and accepting
some questions never get answered.

Questions such as how a breath can be caught
in a chest for a time only to be
exhaled while a simlutateous emotion flows down
the cheek that tried to hold it in.

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cmc
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Windblown moments of now hold
three generations of building, building,
Rebuilding
Each build echoing the other long enough
to make it stick.

Storms send sorrow,
Deletion delivers despair,
Hope heals hearts.

Things are what you could buy
with treasures you might have earned
meeting people who mean the most to you.

Hold your breath long enough
to make the exhale matter.
Learn the lay of the land well enough
to remember what matters most
When the time comes to rebuild.

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