First, we’re close enough to the grass to hear the singing light;
the buzz of every velvet thought before the carapace wears hard.
And then there’s the time when all the willows come to the river,
Wash their toes, gild and vermeil their hair, whisper supple ripples
down the water. The oaks hear this from further in the grass.
All the roots are bound with mycelium dreams, drunk from rain and river.
the buzz of every velvet thought before the carapace wears hard.
And then there’s the time when all the willows come to the river,
Wash their toes, gild and vermeil their hair, whisper supple ripples
down the water. The oaks hear this from further in the grass.
All the roots are bound with mycelium dreams, drunk from rain and river.
The spreading soil grows loose, down to the limestone.
You feel it,
gradually, as the body separates from the pointed soil.
One night, everything laces close to the bone and digs in.
Loosens, sloughs away. But eventually—the bone is set.
One night, everything laces close to the bone and digs in.
Loosens, sloughs away. But eventually—the bone is set.
Once upon a grid, there will be soundings and the deep root
of buildings, humming with the electric thoughts, itchier than roots.
Evanescent. And the bright and the velvet and the flexible and the loose
Will settle around this mimicry of mountains. And we’ll go, too,
Will settle around this mimicry of mountains. And we’ll go, too,
bodies free of the riverine dreams and ready to climb
into the business ranges, out along the commercial ridges,
peeling open the cans of processed song and turning on
buzzing light. Eventually, though, the songs taste different,
the light settles on our skin in ridges and rings and we know.
We will become mountains, the underlying.
into the business ranges, out along the commercial ridges,
peeling open the cans of processed song and turning on
buzzing light. Eventually, though, the songs taste different,
the light settles on our skin in ridges and rings and we know.
We will become mountains, the underlying.
The hard fact of yesterday which is recognized only viscerally,
gently, by the roots or the hollow caves in the mimic mountains,
by the lovely pastel geographies of how the land
moves
slowly, sometimes, into the planes beneath the parkland.
slowly, sometimes, into the planes beneath the parkland.
It's the goal-end of the year, the time when new months are plotted, resolutions anticipated, and the year that was has a giant, exploding crystal ball dropped on it because IT TOTALLY DESERVES IT. December finds me opening unread books, reading a few chapters or lines or pages and abandoning them back on the stack. I pretend that I have goals for finishing the things I have started. I pretend that it's totally normal to be pissed off at the guy who was whistling Christmas carols as he left the Dr.'s office yesterday (where I was for a minor check-up)...because PUT YOUR MASK OVER YOUR FACE, DUDE. I empathize with every fragile ornament we put on the tree and fight the urge to tell my partner to just put it back in the wrapping and maybe it'll be okay for another year. And I wonder what this year will be like, when it's the past that's a new year is built upon.
Sharing with The Sunday Muse (thanks to Carrie for a cool prompt & sorry for the shouty follow-on) and Poets and Storytellers United.
-- Chrissa
"...there’s the time when all the willows come to the river,
ReplyDeleteWash their toes, gild and vermeil their hair, whisper supple ripples down the water."
That is just so lovely. I love the image of the willows whispering "supple ripples." You know your trees!
You had me at "close enough to the grass to hear the singing light", and the title is so powerful! A glorious and deep poem my friend! Also, your follow is in no way shouty, it is collective and insightful. I too wonder about next year, but my heart tells me it is going to be a climb in the right direction.
ReplyDelete
ReplyDeleteIt has been a year that's taught us the meaning of simple things like touch, hugs, handshakes, movies, lunches, and family holidays. I wonder if we'll have a new appreciation of them in the years to come.
"eventually—the bone is set" So much amazing language and imagery and thoughts throughout, but I land here.
ReplyDeleteso that's how mountains were formed. :)
ReplyDeletegreat imagery & use of language, there are so many quotable lines.
it has been a pretty strange year but things seem to be turning out right at year's end.
Of all the beautiful lines in this poem ... wash their toes, gild and vermeil their hair, whisper supple ripples down the water ... resonated most. Sigh.
ReplyDeleteYour language is gorgeous. I particullarly luv the image of Willows washing their toes
ReplyDelete"when all the willows come to the river,
Wash their toes,"
Thanks for dropping my my blog today
Much💗love
The tone of this one sticks to the bones, plays relatable notes on the heartstrings. This bit, in particular will stay with me: "peeling open the cans of processed song". There is something about the words that speak of all those feelings we, as a society, have been dealing with lately. I want new songs, truly gentler songs... of better. Guess we shall see, right?
ReplyDeleteAnd don't get me started about the feelings evoked by the sight of people who walk around acting as if necessary repercussions are just something that happen to other people. 2021 must be better. I must be.
Sounds like you had her being an addict of psychedelic drugs (LSD, peyote) like in the 60's. (Her looks like she's far out!)
ReplyDelete..
This is so beautiful, so many lines to love like "Once upon a grid, there will be soundings and the deep root of buildings, humming with the electric thoughts, itchier than roots." Amazing writing!
ReplyDeleteAny poem with "riverine dreams" in it gets my rubber stamp that says EXCELLENT.
ReplyDeleteI love the Mountain Woman; think this is the sort of thing people wanted to take drugs to learn how to write, but it didn't work. An intense poem, dense with meaning.
ReplyDeleteMany beautiful lines in this magical poem
ReplyDeleteI got interrupted and I think my comment may have been lost. So, just in case – this is absolutely magical, with such beautiful words and phrases, such arresting ideas and images. (And yes, we are still in uncertainty; an unknown future, despite hope.)
ReplyDelete“All the roots are bound with mycelium dreams, drunk from rain and river.
ReplyDeleteThe spreading soil grows loose, down to the limestone.
You feel it, gradually, as the body separates from the pointed soil.
One night, everything laces close to the bone and digs in.
Loosens, sloughs away. But eventually—the bone is set.”
Spectacular writing, Chrissa!