Thursday, July 13, 2017

Anthracite


Anthracite


The night was black as anthracite.
The moon was the eye of a fevered child
flickering and far, clouded with fright.
Fate laughed and tossed her coal-blackened globe
against the waves;
day came too late.

In the rubble and rack that sun revealed
no life stirred, no idea of steel
no souvenir of will, forgotten but worn
warm as a gold cross under the shirt, no grace
clean as new snow on
a winter grave.

So it's goodbye to those who burned for peace
and went to war, to flowers' caprice
dried in bloody scoria poured at their feet,
to those dead at the gate
that can't be passed through.
Day comes too late.



~July 2017








for Fireblossom's Bang! you're dead












Scoria:[skawr-ee-ah,] 1.Metallurgy. the refuse, dross, or slag left after melting or smelting metal; scum. 2.Geology. a cinderlike basic cellular lava.





Image: Night, 1890, by Edward Munch    public domain




13 comments:

  1. You always come up with something fresh. What a jolting notion, to think of the useless by-product of lives and dreams consumed. Not to worry, though, Donny's bringing the coal jobs back. Besides, there is always more fuel for the furnace.

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  2. A start reminder about the effects of war, and the tragedy of the living. Such a delightful yet solmen read. Greetings to you!

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  3. There will always be a day that comes too late for someone but here i sense the day is too late for us all and that doom laden message is haunting.

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  4. Before I say any more, let me mention the strength of your form here. It makes such a string frame for the content.. and how we all love it when you turn off the light and show us what is hiding in the dark places. That this ends with a benediction for those who burned for peace... says all we have come to know of these times.

    Amen

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  5. I feel the darkness of night even at daylight now... war has this way of darken skies, like the fumes from Mount Doom... Maybe death is welcome in a state like this.

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  6. How visual your words were in this harsh appraisal of our non-ending futile killing.

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  7. "Fate laughed and tossed her coal-blackened globe....." the starkness of your imagery resonates. Like Paul, i read it as a portentous message for us all. If the planet survives, future generations will look back at us and think we were insane. Excellent writing, as always, Hedge.

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  8. I love the opening lines, which convey the night so well, and how anthracite and coal in the first stanza turn to steel, gold and snow in the second stanza, and finally to 'bloody scoria'.

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  9. Are we living in that day too late? I try not to dwell on it, but it scrapes against my peace too often. Brilliant, artistic description of the days we find ourselves in.

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  10. I believe that the sound of Fate throwing her glove and laughing will stay with me for a very long time. I can totally see her--glorious, hilarious, and mildly terrifying... inevitable.

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  11. The sense of death's interruption here is total and final, the last frame on the screen when the projector froze. But why paraphrase -- "Fate laughed and tossed her coal-blackened globe / against the waves; /
    day came too late." But the scythe blade is long and curved, so the lingering on is apropos, ending at the tip, that farewell "to those dead at the gate / that can't be passed through./ Day comes too late." My west side highway rambles past this oracle, perhaps they were fabricated in the same dreadful forge. Great challenges grow dread semblances ... a hoot, I'd say.

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg