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Sung of a stick

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  • Sung of a stick

    twig-ends tender to worm
    -stabbing bill-tips waver
    a feather-length under
    the light -- imagine webs

    an inch of waterflow
    batting as eschaton
    blacking day and passing
    engine a horeb cloud

    an untranslated shout
    shaking your root with rule
    the fuming basso claps
    your sky to baffled rush

    oh crooked stick below
    picking the brackish tide
    the rumbled law has pricked
    your terrors to gabble

    east their sudden wingbeats
    fling your water heaven
    bare a morning snapshot
    out of a fleeting pane
    Last edited by grant hayes; 08-06-2018, 04:25 PM.

  • #2
    interesting how some of the phrasings really accentuated/went well together.

    Getting a sense of how the energy in this 'moves'. See in my mind-eye, I saw the stick almost fishing something out of earth. And then it seemed like a beautiful image jumps out from last line of first stanza. I like the juxtaposition.

    And then I read again and it seems a solemn poem about a beach scene, with a gnarled tree, and the tide, and the wind mixing it all up, perhaps.

    I think the dramatics of this is actually in small things "personified"/magnified. I suppose that is what I sense about your writings, --pith, or chthonic.

    Comparing you and I stylistically, from what I know, I'm a bit more flashy. I suppose there's a opacity to your poems I wonder about, whereas mine could be 'flashy' or something. Just some thoughts, it's interesting "deconstructing" anyway.

    -- Good use of diction here, the stanzas flow well, I am curious, driven to figure out what's going on, you didn't make it overly apparent ... and then I reread and can imagine a bird somehow, which is really interesting.

    Second to last stanza // could that be somehow a bird falling (I equated bird from first stanza : stabbing "bill" for the worm.

    --Should come back to this. Now I get an alien feel of a world but maybe I've been analyzing too long. Get a sense of no humans, and solemn world. I think the "untranslated" shout sure set part of that mood. Well anyway, just some circumambulation of your poem.

    And my active imagination lol! Thanks for sharing, and take care, Grant!


    • grant hayes
      grant hayes commented
      Editing a comment
      Such a generously detailed response, amenOra. I'm pleased to be thought 'chthonic' . And I see 'solemn' appears a couple of times. I'm glad that you feel the piece invites and warrants exploration, pondering, analysis.

      Not sure I'd call your style 'flashy'; if our approaches are to be compared, I'd say yours is marked by a passionate, forensic interiority, reaching outward, whereas mine trades in an opacity that observes and condenses externals, and points inward from there.

      I decided some time ago not to define the interpretation of my work any more; I'm happy to indicate aspects of structure, and maybe point out an allusion here or there. I prefer to let readers interpret as they will; it's much more interesting that way.

    • amenOra
      amenOra commented
      Editing a comment
      Ah, and the way you described it shows just what differences go into how you and I express "that which has to be pierced" with, I suppose, is the intellect. (That I wasn't able to express) But definitely special to me to be able to connect on any level, specially ones I'm just learning are there! lol Peace.
      Last edited by amenOra; 08-02-2018, 09:28 AM.

  • #3
    "twig-ends tender to worm"
    lugs that in blind continence feed
    are themselves fed upon.
    In wave-wash Sanderlings
    skitter to probe the foam.
    The engine's rush,
    drives a coveyed flush.
    Within the rumbled hum,
    beyond a silent film,
    a carriage pane scene.
    Tumbled stick borne
    tide worn, no remission,
    by train
    Last edited by Johntee; 08-02-2018, 07:36 AM.


    • grant hayes
      grant hayes commented
      Editing a comment
      What a fine poem this is, Johntee; as I read it I have the strange sense of simultaneously *being read*. There is a tenth muse: Exegeseia, she who presides over the art of enlightened, responsive commentary. She has blessed you tenfold.

  • #4
    This spoke to me of a floating twig in the vast ocean landing on a beach and if it could speak, it would have tales to tell of the ending of the world, the creatures making their home on it, in it - how it saw the blazing sun and the nights lit by the moon, the noises it heard like that of a deep bass of the waves crashing and that of the wind blowing. As though you spoke from a perspective I never tried before -that of a stick. I enjoyed it Grant. 😊


    • grant hayes
      grant hayes commented
      Editing a comment
      What a beautiful piece of prose, Alexandra! That a poem of mine could elicit such a response makes me feel very privileged.

  • #5
    Grant Today I've tidied "The commuters story"
    by moving "a carriage pane scene;"
    and removing the word "observation"
    so "no remission" ties to the stick
    and the commuter