Saturday, January 5, 2019

The Night

The night expresses itself as hours
arranged in frets--
they become the turquoise rings she wears,
one on every finger.

In the sound hole, the stars
exist as a kind of resonant wool--
deep blue wrapped around silver tones
she rings as you dream, listening.

Always, she was drawn to the curled leaf, the home branch, the lantern.
(Always, even as a girl.)
Wives go deaf remembering the curl of her tongue,
though their men go on talking, talking, talking beside them.

Hers is the path through the blackberry vines,
a mote against the pitch,
rising.
_____

for this.


 
 

 

15 comments:

  1. This is so mysterious... but I do like the way the wives go deaf to their men.

    I think she knows well to spill a spell

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  2. I hear a mystical guitar in this...A song that teases memory while life steals the ability to hear what once electrified the ear. Gorgeous!

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  3. Wonderful how you bring color to this black and white picture, the turquoise rings, the deep blue wrapped around silver. This poem takes me back to the days when I wore turquoise jewelry and indigo and blue thin blouses. The wives who go deaf to her curled tongue while their witlexx husband continue to yammer yammer yammer. This is a mysterious poem. It trumps ink any day.

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  4. Mysterious, colorful, and foreboding... Lovely poem.

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  5. So wonderful, Shay. It's given me goosebumps and raised the hairs on my head... as i would imagine such an encounter in the woods would do.. so i was there in the moment.

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  6. I’m taken by the thought of night as a stringed instrument – is it a guitar, a violin or a deep-toned cello? I especially enjoyed the resonance of the rings through the first two stanzas and the lines:
    ‘In the sound hole, the stars
    exist as a kind of resonant wool--
    deep blue wrapped around silver tones’
    which made me decide that it might not be a cello after all.
    I also like the wives ignoring their husbands.

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  7. I loved the wives going deaf, remembering, while their husbands go on talking, talking, talking......

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  8. Such a wonderful personification, and the use of shades of blues to fill in the colour is a perfect addition. I love this bit: "Hers is the path through the blackberry vines,/a mote against the pitch,/rising."

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    1. Yes, that bit is fabulous. Like she meanders in and out of their homes, but if anyone dares visit hers, it'll be hard-going, through some wicked thorns. But man, is the fruit sweet.

      I love the notion of being just a mote, floating through it all.

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  9. this is a slow story, in the walking, the wending, the brewing ... like a melody, humming, belly deep resonating from the body of the guitar -

    I just like its richness, makes me see deeply polished wood and hands well worn for the lightness of touch, the strumming, the transfer of oils ... so as it unfolds, I am caught (but not caged) and drift into it ...

    and those two lines of "the wives going deaf ... the men talking talking" - really catapult this into a new level, where I fear, even the angels fear to tread ...

    fascinating story for the poem dancing within ... I like its rawness and sinuousness

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  10. This is about a husband-stealing guitar-player, as I read it. Maybe she doesn't actually swipe them, but she's at least mesmerizing on-stage.

    The stars inside the guitar is a stunning poetic image --- so clever. Imagine, the entirety of the night sky inside a musical instrument, strummed by God(dess). Ariana Grande, perhaps.

    Killer line breaks. Hours/ours. Frets. So smart.

    The curled leaf, curled tongue. Autumn. I'm picturing her as a drifter, wandering down phantom streets, playing under windows.

    Have you seen The Girl Who Invented Kissing? It's an excellent movie. This could be her.

    You are insane to think this is anything less than some of your best writing. So very stimulating and thought-provoking.

    The wool is used to clean the strings/frets, yes?

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  11. Haunting yet in a wonderful way. Night represents a certain sadness, or loneliness, but you have played it deeper and even more mysterious here. I love this Shay!!

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  12. I originally had a poem written about the women's viscous tongues and the men who found comfort in her arms... I like that you picked up on that thread as that was a vibe I certainly got from this as well. "Hers is the path through the black berry vines..." Nice. Black berries can mean "spiritual neglect / Christ's blood ... also they say christ's crown was made of blackberry runners (so I suppose it could also mean "offering up" Puts in interesting twist on the poem.

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  13. Wives ignoring husbands, and her path through the blackberry vines. Love this mysterious spell-weaving moth-woman.

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don't be stupid.