Thursday, November 23, 2006

Trail Run

Through the woods I hurried.
Worried squirrels scurried.

9 comments:

blaise enright said...

charcoal sky clouds race through the hurricane of broken fallen trees and birds
screech through the devastation
and i watch from my quivering window panes
pink sky leaves swirling through the air like love
like vagabond love
like buried in a tinker graveyard love
like fall, and winter both
hiding under the covers love
making love
with you.

JohnJEnright said...

Thank you, Blaise!

JohnJEnright said...

I keep reading this, because I like it, and I want to remark on two things I'm thinking.

The tinkers, in Ireland, are like the gypsies in Europe, a traveling people. So I think "tinker graveyard love" takes off from the idea of "vagabond" love.

"Quivering window panes"... is evocative, sensual, and may contain a pun. I think it's the first clue in the poem that we're not talking about a real storm but a metaphorical one.

blaise said...

thanks for your comments John!

vagabond/tinker - yes - i found an enright in a tinker graveyard in ireland in june - just a plain stone unlike the elaborate and festooned with all manner of knick knack, black granite mythical markers of the tinkers (now named "travelers")point is - i am a vagabond like some of my (our) ancestors and windy dancing leaves are a metaphor for freedom...

blaise said...

glass box
surrounded by sky, space
birds crash into it.

park dancers t’ai chi in the rain
boxing the air, a crow sits on a swing
head cocked, watching.

morning news
drones images from the tv
the ocean swallowed up Queen of the North.

those passengers will raise hell i say
to my imaginary husband, mute
pouring my tea.

mayday
a bee slips through the cracks
lands next to me.

have i met you before i ask him?
in another lifetime or yesterday?
he flies away.



blaise

blaise said...

far from neptune feathers burning
on my bed floating
blossoms to my shore desire
moves my hands over him
moonlight arrows ripening wet earth
*
my tongue tastes the rim of his imagination
licks the fire in his mouth
ribbons of consciousness unravel he hovers
buzzing a honeybee’s promise
his nectar my harvest
*



blaise

JohnJEnright said...

Ah, Blaise, you have a fine way with words. These are quite lovely too. I haven't been to Ireland yet, but I'm thinking in the next 5 years I have to visit.

JohnJEnright said...

For anyone reading Blaise's poems, the Queen of the North was a ferry that sank off the coast of British Columbia in March 2006.

That particular poem has this disaster at its center, but approaches it so obliquely, as if it were an event that didn't matter, but of course it must matter a lot if it's included in such a spare poem. The bee, at the end, is a pleasant turning, a friendly bee not a stinging one. The word 'mayday' - obviously it's the distress call, but is it also a punning suggestion of spring - therefore introducing the bee?

The image of the bee also appears in the last poem, which strikes me as very hot - even though I haven't worked through all the imagery yet.

Anonymous said...

oh mz blaise! this new tone this accent this... slant on the devastation... the... foreground! oh i am happier than a march hare in may! (for you)... lyrical power... sneeky rhythms resisting a chant....
vagabond love! the only kind, d'accord?
mz. b~ i may not see the matter but but i do see the light... glancing off the peach trees!
as for me... i am looking for a green moon... and i must turn off the lights to see... later gator. antonio