SUBJECT>Re: Fourth Sunday POSTER>Laurel EMAIL> DATE>1107709952 EMAILNOTICES>no IP_ADDRESS>cpe-204-210-183-225.neo.rr.com PASSWORD>aaFRbor6/KzWk PREVIOUS>83072 NEXT> IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>
Thank god for this again. I read this over on the other side and liked it alot. Also enjoyed reading Bern's comments. The last 3 lines knock me down to the ground. But then, the whole poem does.
This, my dear, is sublime:
The cherry is in two cycles at once.
Late autumn witherings, inebriated bats, cling:
intermittering dithering blossoms
as if no branch
decides.
Oh, damn---the whole poem is.
We flee to the hearth, not from it---meanwhile, I just mistyped hearth as heart.
I learn so much reading your poems, Annmarie. I like reading poetry that makes me aspire to more in my own. You've got the bar raised out of my reach, but I can stand on tippy toes and dream, can't I? (grin)
A pleasure, ma'am, to read you.
Laurel
: again!!
: Fourth Sunday
: A baragnotic sky: from here should I have
: followed its trammelled droppings,
: mud unparalleled. But windings
: are not clear. There is the Abbey which repels
: or magnetises according to the direction
: approached. This uncomplicated,
: yet eschatological, near
: vertical, a
: grace
: merely pinioned, quasi-simple – led.
: A hysteresis threaded flat
: within all travels shies
: us where-
: ever we dare not yet think
: we can. We end(ed) up where
: we end, driven somehow, pushed by signs. I spy
: Romney sheep, glutinous hyphens
: expostulating upon half-dead baize.
: Rooks splay a disjectorous cuneiform.
: Plainsong was not that but a lazy circuitous
: and hard. The typo read: and is the music upon
: which the prayer of Benedictine monks is based.
: It includes some of the oldest melodies eve
: created.
: The cherry is in two cycles at once.
: Late autumn witherings, inebriated bats, cling:
: intermittering dithering blossoms
: as if no branch
: decides.
: As such, hedges too look confused, dirty
: and irritable. A returning crow morses across
: hastily pastelled haar,
: aching to scape from throat some heart. We flee
: to the hearth, not from it. I may have said
: many things from afar. But the straight
: is always anspoggic.
: Like you, I have shed my corrections.
: Unheroic. Written.
: Most paths are.