jeudi 3 décembre 2009

Catalog of a Rainy Day in December

i awake in a mound of cotton
quilt and brain tied in
in a fabric knot
my mouth dry and ascerbic
and the sound of raindrops
beating the tile roof
droplets converging into
one sound, one contiguous thought
i am leaving soon
there is no turning back

the mountains are still standing
but leaves that once covered
branches are now gone
rainwater washes down gutters
and puddles under arches
and dampens my dry eyes as
I sit up to think
but thinking is not an option
when the day is fraught with water
and i with no tears to greet it

the once eternally blue sky
is gray-white and startling
i sit in the cotton void and
listen, surprised by birdsong
and the catalog of nonthought
that forms a large ellipse
in the center of this bed
and i at its edge, as so often
a figment of my own nonthought
disfigured like my blurry photographs

there is no hearth in which to
light a fire and burn away
the aftersense of ruinous dreams
there is no chimney to catch
the rising cottonous smoke of cigarettes
that carries me across boundaries
there is no stove on which
to make espresso, heat the
cereals of human evolution or
warm the chicken soup of the soul

but there is water to
plump the flaking skin
water to fill the crevices
of failure, water flowing
water breaking, water without
rhyme or reason, and if i
had to chose but one element
for food, it would be water
because water is memory
its fluid body rippling in time

what i had then i have now

i need not think about it
let the cotton coverlet
fold again over eyes and lips
let me sleep in this soundfield
fade into nothingness or
into the ridicule of dreams
let this day stand in infamy
when rains flooded the earth
and drowned the foes of god

it is naught for nothing
that melancholy comes
with raindrops

16 commentaires:

enudelman a dit…

water, water everywhere; love this gentle ode to healing

Moineau En France a dit…

thank you, dear poet. xxooxox

Max Babi a dit…

This is a haunting poem, dear Laura, somehow brings passages from Neruda translated by W.S. Merwin... I had to read it three times, and will read again soon.
Warm hugz

Moineau En France a dit…

max, thank you. i felt like the poem was just touching upon a new style, reaching into a more intellectual place for me than usual. these arrive from time to time, and i am grateful... LOVE. ALWAYS. xoxoxoox

Moineau En France a dit…

i did some subtle editing that i think helps the flow and perhaps even the depth of the poem. i like it even more... xoxooxoxox

Vinod a dit…

A nice painting and a nicer acceptance of what the canvas gives back...

Monica a dit…

Loved this one, I think the best I've read so far (but hope to read many more!). Great big hug,


Moineau En France a dit…

thank you, vinod and monica. now i start the process of packing... god i hate to pack. LOVE. xoxoxooxox

Jan Hersh a dit…

cotton and smoke
cotton and mind
comfort and raw life
contrasts abound in your morning musing
a sense of acceptance
ce qui est accepte
meme la pluie
meme partager

une chose m'a arrete
"chicken soup of the soul"
seulement pour originalite
neanmoins le sens est bien entendu
I'm happy for you to have had this grand experience and look forward to your return.
It is a marvelous poem.

Moineau En France a dit…

i made a big batch of chicken soup last night... it's cold here! :>>>>))))

Moineau En France a dit…

but you have a point lol. xoxoox

Stirling Davenport a dit…

I love this, Laura - these subtle, cottony images, redolent with water like clouds of thoughts.

Anonyme a dit…

Laura ... the rain has momentarily swallowed you whole. Vivid and wonderful exploration of rain ... it took me up. Your photos are so apt. I love the glass table.

Hazel a dit…

Wonderful! I want that last stanza written up in beautiful ink and framed on my wall... X

Moineau En France a dit…

thank you, friends stirling, liz and today my dearest hazel who appears out of the cotton haze revisited! "i am leaving/ there is no going back," and here i am again in astoria. "what i had then i have now/ there is no need to think about it." oh that i were as wise as the poet who lives inside me! may she soon pick up her pen and soothe this amnesiacal soul! :>>))) xoxoxoxo

Pisces Iscariot a dit…

This poem is infused with the European climate - a factor to which you are obviously sensitive - it allows your melancholia to shine.
"and i with no tears to greet it" the word 'greet' means 'to cry' in Scottish ;]