(to L.D. 1954-1990)

[Terreson]

(to L.D. 1954-1990)


The red hour glass and the upturned spider belly,
black and gravid girl
poised in the palm of my hand.

Brother, I miss you in this bayou light.
You were always better than me.
I look for you now like a child
looking for stillness in your soul.

Roads to nowhere I keep to.
And to perfect love turning stone to water.
The gold shaft in you, in your bones,
clears the fields, stabs the levee,
sets you standing out heroic.

You never once questioned your passion.

It is the light that beguiles me,
tosses me down just when I think I see.
Shadows in summer’s afternoon
I figure have meaning too, have the close story.
And they do, my brother, only
your purity of vision saved you.
Impurity in nuance damns me.

It is the heat of the hour
and the uncalled for sighting of your face
that sucks the air out of my lungs.
This was not the plan we made
when we walked Chartres street and you said,
“My dance is my body, my God is my own.”

I swore by the beauty you saw that day!

It is this hour glass spider in my palm.
She rests deliberately, she is warm.
And you the casualty of too much Christ.


Terreson

[David]

A touching tribute, Terreson. The arc of the poem is (I think) clear, and the passion, even if individual details do seem to lack focus or clarity. There may be much that has a personal meaning for you that does not seem so clear to us. It's like speaking a foreign language imperfectly - I may miss individual words, but the gist is understood.

I love the use of Chartres. The import of the spider escaped me.

But an honourable poem.

Cheers

David

[Terreson]

Thanks, David, for taking the time to read and comment. I get your objection to the incidentals intended to flesh out the story. Effecting texture always makes for tricky business, hit and miss at best. About the narrator's spider, I would call a man crazy picking up a black widow. Thanks again.

Tere

[Lovely]

Don't quite get the poem's meaning but loved the rhythm to it. There's serious
potential here. Was he bitten?

"Roads to nowhere I keep to.
And to perfect love turning stone to water"---- is the best for me,

that takes time, but nature and eternity has plenty of it.

Nice piece and liked the flow

l

[Terreson]

Thank you much, Lovely, for reading and commenting. I confess I was steeped in flamenco poetry, Lorca's flamenco inspired poetry especially, when the poem's first draft was written. Probably the rhythm comes from the preoccupation(s). Thanks again.

Tere