|Best Poems About / On ELEGY
Der Einfall, Remaining Light In Duino
[Beginning with two lines from Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke]
'You that fall with the
thud only fruits know, unripe, '
here wait to be shaken.
Here we carry, or ought to (driven so much past
bitter root) , sugar,
not for selves but for the gods to sweeten their too
(at least they have tongues/mouths,
we know they have teeth)
to open them into our subjectivity which, secret told, is
what they crave, our realist sufferings, such are sweet
to them, makes them, too, more solid -
what they seek - solidity beyond our capacities to reify
but for Imagination which conducts/births them into material
Our extreme suffering compensates for, gravitates their
too refined coldness toward heat.
They, like scattered flour, having no leaven,
dream/desire us-the-leaven; they seek/swell
into what we have, what we bring, we, the most baked,
to be torn into, eaten, too, for yearning gods' sake.
They come/fall compelled to colors, palettes, ours, upon
worn pallets, these acrobats, as yet enfleshed lovers in
not yet felt world and literal sense, they
do balance, risk, stumble, break, stutter/cry, utter
such further dimension into
desire's bodies, breath, ashes,
importantly, always just arriving
forgetting the arguing seed's
previous vertical discontent.
Such skies already known
limb by limb escape
slowly their shaping.
They suspend, extend then
into their felt fall,
hard land into waking.
What uses for tears there
are gather there from
the eye, pour upon the
cheek from which miscreant
tongues may most drink.
Think again upon these things which go about
in darkness and stumble against us begging no
pardon, intent still on passage, confused for words
or Ibn Arabi's 'Black Light' no light at all, or
thing, but a gnossis found, or given.
Gnossis, most striven for, in minutest motes, is.
All this to say, Ready.
further beyond (yet into)
unsaid street corner,
into inarticulate cathedral,
into unutterable mosque,
into wholly other loci
dependent upon uninhabited
blue field, crust, what
passes for, or has, Light,
just overtones 'beyond the fiddle.'
Now here must stop
in what is remaining light to cook
must bend to the purple cabbage at hand,
the courage of the knife
the helpful drive of hunger,
marvel yet again, it's faceted pattern when
halved, same as the onion, the leek
Such facets in me too reveal when
I dare to be loved in two
**The quote in the poem is from the Duino Elegies
Read more poems from Warren Falcon >>>
Elegy to a Kurdish father
Elegy to a Kurdish father
for Ekim Erdogan
Alone in a green meadow I pray,
not on my knees but hands held high.
I think of the Kurdish girl in the London fog
her Baba is gone, the night has come.
Behind the East End walls a bluesy soulful note.
The cockney drink bitter beer, rattle and chat.
But she is not there, she is a continent away
for the Sultans ruled from Constantinople to Budapest
from Medina to Algiers
and in the muscle of the coffee the tendons of kabobs
there is a tone in her Babas voice, a light in a dark green forest.
The tale of the Kardelen
the Snowdrop, so shy, below the snow,
knows the sun fingers will smother its breath
so it hides, like the prized nuts of a brown squirrel,
in the custody of winters frozen soil.
Still, above ground,
the Snowdropp hears the wind of her lovers song
she longs and longs then rises to her lovers strum
but in a flash her petals gone
Yet in that second, that moment
when love was once again made new
the girl, well beyond the fog and pub dwellers,
hears only her Babas granite voice
revealed in the eternal romance of Kardelen
sprouting toward Spring, love and valor.
Read more poems from Leo Briones >>>
The foul stench of burning flesh permeates the air,
Rotten, putrefying bodies lie in the baking sun,
Bright crimson death everywhere,
Frightened masses on the run
Wide-eyed terror on the prowl,
Africa rent asunder,
Can be seen Deaths scowl,
Sheer madness in Rwanda
Frenzied killing unabated,
A fevered orgy of blood,
Hate and bloodlust not sated,
A vile and incessant flood
Machetes a-glint in the firelight,
Dark night knows no end,
Rampant death beneath stars bright,
The victims souls ascend
Sculpted in lifeless repose,
Torn bodies and silent screams,
The legion of dead in abject throes,
Naught can ever the killers redeem
And, where must be asked, was the World?
When they were needed the most,
Why were their actions not most bold?
Why was saving lives not topmost?
And today, the land lies sullied in shame,
The rabid killers remain unbowed,
The dark pall of hate still silently aflame,
And beyond, a menacing cloud
But perhaps, as if from the ashes of the dead,
Rwanda can rise once more,
To assuage the blood, terror and dread,
And embrace Peace forevermore!
Read more poems from Ross DixPeek >>>
Margrit's Words....Addressing Jim
Elegy to Mary Azevedo - June 2005
Laureen and Kim
And Margrit's words
The day a dreary
Its moment...an even
God's will to give
Then snatch away
That right to live
Of the fellowman
....An intense glow
Amidst the gloom
...Soothed the soul
That day....in June
Lost its meaning
...As joyful sorrow's
Songs were singing
...Laureen and Kim
And Margrit's words
The assignment; Pickup Margrit Mondavi at Robert Mondavi Winery, and drive to late afternoon appointment:
Arriving onsite some minutes ahead of scheduled departure, I reclined in the limo, seizing the opportunity to unwind a bit from the rigors of an earlier excursion into San Francisco. Alerted by distant voices, I looked up to see Mrs. Mondavi approaching accompanied by an entourage of four co-workers. Exiting the vehicle, I acknowleged their presence, and exchanged a bit of light banter with a member of the group. Immediately thereafter Margrit addressed me saying, 'Jim I have some bad news. Mary (Mary Azevedo, Robert Mondavi's Adminstrative Assistant) passed away this morning.' I recall closing my eyes, bitting my lip, struggling to maintain composure - sinking ever deeper into the widening abyss of excruciating grief. But just as quickly sensed an oxymoronic relief buoyed by the quintessential gift of friendship exemplified by the presence of these compassionate folks who in their collective wisdom chose to stand with me in spiritual solidarity during this challenging ordeal they surmised would be one of my most difficult. Often I visit that overcast day, still I see them all approaching, that portrait ever more celestial than before. Some years ago, I composed the poem 'Margrit's Words Addressing Jim, ' as a note of appreciation, thanking these special folks whose sensitivity helped transform a moment of paralytic anguish into the luxurious grandeur of consummate bliss.
James B. Earley
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