Sunday, July 16, 2017

Lost At Sea


Lost At Sea



The moon mocks a sailor
on the surface, bobbing and breeching.
Boiling in darkness
the sweet arch of coral
clings with its bones to the breast of a giant,
crumbling to a legend
in its poison bath.

The antic fishes
with their calico colors
paint fading murals in a
melting palace, then rise grey
in their bloat to bleach clouded tides.
The sun's spear drives home
through a broken shield

splits the skin of the ice
so it roams without purpose,
a white wolf with Fenrir's breath
that moving southward slowly starves.
In this wreckage and wrack that's the prize for destroyers
who sold all their flowers to dance in an oil slick
and all the world had

for the price of
a mess of pottage, is there one soul left
who can make a new day?



~July 2017




 For Brendan's changing earth



Images: Untitled marinescape, by Zdislaw Beksinski   Fair Use
Edward G Robinson watches a film of flowers before death, from the 1973 movie Soylent Green
Public domain


Process note: "A mess of pottage is something immediately attractive but of little value taken foolishly and carelessly in exchange for something more distant and perhaps less tangible but immensely more valuable. The phrase alludes to Esau's sale of his birthright for a meal ("mess") of lentil stew ("pottage") in Genesis 25:29-34 and connotes shortsightedness and misplaced priorities..."~wikipedia



8 comments:

  1. While a few enjoy the short term gain from exchanging their birthright for a mess of pottage, countless others on this planet have had it stolen from them by this filthy bargain. No brave new world to speak of, I fear. No soul to save the day.

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  2. Each stanza turns something natural into something corrupted or defiled. I despair of any turning of the figurative tide in these matters anymore. Rising to power is particularly suited for those who don't give a damn for much else besides the acquisition of same, and the money and phony prestige that go with it.

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  3. So three hundred years from now someone on the eventual shore of this sea and pulls out a bottle inside which, cork removed, there is extracted this poem, by way of explanation of just what could have precipitated so willingly and blindly their Hadean norm. To me the message in the bottle would be clear: we saw it, we saw it, we saw it, and said:

    In this wreckage and wrack that's the prize for destroyers
    who sold all their flowers to dance in an oil slick
    and all the world had

    for the price of
    a mess of pottage, is there one soul left
    who can make a new day?

    -- And figure that, sensing no one monied or important enough to care, forbid poetry in the name of pottage. It think there's ample coin here to pay the ferryman. Great stuff, and thanks for pouring in this bucket of burning oil. Really. We need to write by those lights.

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  4. Devastating poem and question, Joy. I agree with Brendan. This poem packs power. Thanks for writing it.

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  5. I love that you brought out Fenrir... Ragnarök or pale riders... it's all the same, it's there around the corner. Love the voice of your poem.

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  6. The weight of these words sit heavy on the soul and yet there is within the darkness a question that wakes up a voice in me. I do not nor have I ever believed there is one such soul but I have always hoped that collectively such a soul could be birthed.Maybe not hoped. More dreamed.

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  7. There is a question. Well composed.

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  8. There are too many "messes of pottages' going on in this world of ours. Sad. Thank you for highlighting it. And for expanding my general knowledge, did not know the term 'mess of pottages'. Until now *grin*

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