Ice on the Root

[Lia]

Ice on the Root


i. Minnows and Leeches

I carried him down to the water, held his hand
as minnows darted over our feet, upstream.

How you looked at us, said we’d be thick
with leeches when we stepped out. And he giggled

as silver bodies sparkled and brushed past.
And you waited; watch poised, ready for tapping.

I would have held his hand and swum with them
if I could.


ii. Cake

We button our coats, ready for the weather.
We’ve taken to walking every afternoon. Tuesdays,
the very best of days, we slip our pockets
with cake-- find the old hazel where the leaves
will fall soon. We sit underneath,

talk about the simple things. Wide-eyed,
my son pushes cake into his mouth,
and I remember last year, how it was
to build moats and castles from autumn’s rust.
He asks if the leaves will fall now.

Not yet, sweetheart, not yet.


iii. From the Window

The grass is still frost when you leave.

Under the wych elm, earth pulses
through dark wood to the bole. You know

its tendencies, how it is
not to wake the sleeping. Further

than lower garden and fencing, footprints
follow like a silver snake into the wilderness.


iv. Ice on the Root

This time of year, the water won’t move.

The track north, follows along the bank. Silver
winds around such tired men leaning. They look
over their shoulders at the hills
arced and motionless.
One branch in particular,
could claw the white sun down
if it reached hard enough.

It is a gathering,
and I fail at their language--
all whispers and creaking. All bare limbs
tangling the cold sky with knots and splinters.


v. A Secret

The moon is out for liars.
The spotlight blisters the glass,
finds him busy with photographs.

She has faded. He wastes no time
coming to the desk with her,
a finger on her mouth.

*

The room is darker. It wrecks the sunlight
like winter does, these days.

Your friend sits herself in a frame
on the windowsill. It is the only place
I’ve seen her. And only now that she’s dead.

Was she anything like me?

We don’t look similar. I don’t wear hats.
Never fascinated enough with Stonehenge
to have a poster on the wall, but

it hangs there now, like a secret
slowly uncovering, until the glass screen
shatters, so sharp and cold, on our feet--ice
on the root of you, our son and me.


vi. I miss the minnows

he said, I miss the autumn castles,
mummy, we can go back can‘t we?

No, sweetheart, no we can’t.

[Bombadil]

It gathers slowly then slays at the end...


I think you could do without saying "silver" twice in such proximity. And I'm not sure about the Stonehenge reference.

You may not even need iii, except, I suppose, to move things along.

Worth a thought. At the same time you could get away with not doing anything to it.

This is very very good.


Cheers,

Keith

[barrie]

Fascinating description of a relationship gone cold, frozen by cold winds from the past.
Verse one sets the relationship scene, 'And you waited; watch poised, ready for tapping.' - Impatience, detachment, and annoyance.

The boy is totally immersed in his immediate surroundings - oblivious to the brooding.

The woman, full of foreboding, just wants to escape -

'I would have held his hand and swum with them
if I could.'

The second part continues with the woman finding escape and solace in childhood things. I like the prophetic ending here -

'He asks if the leaves will fall now.

Not yet, sweetheart, not yet.'

iii 'You know

its tendencies, how it is
not to wake the sleeping.'

I interpreted this in two ways - the man leaving the house without awakening anyone, and secrets, some best left as such.

iv - Ice on the Root.

I like the whole image here - The trees as men, who seem to be privy to something that the woman isn't, but knows she ought to be.

v. The Secret - self-explanatory.

'a secret
slowly uncovering, until the glass screen
shatters, so sharp and cold, on our feet--ice
on the root of you, our son and me.' - The most powerful part of the poem for me - excellent.

The end was fitting and very final - There never is any going back.

'he said, I miss the autumn castles,
mummy, we can go back can‘t we?

No, sweetheart, no we can’t.'

The way you used childhood innocence, and the progression of autumn through to winter really highlighted the final months of a relationship.

Well written and thoroughly captivating.

Barrie

[Lia]

Keith, I suppose my intention may have been to link iii & iv with the silver snake and the silver winding around the trees. The idea being, perhaps, that the damage slowly crept into the simple things. This may be something too vague though. Thanks, I’ll give your comments some more thought.

Thank you, Barrie. You pretty much summed up every part.. whether it was through telepathy or because I wrote clearly I’m not sure. This one actually began with me trying to write a ‘short’ poem, but I couldn’t fit everything in so I gave up. Anyway, very glad you liked it, and appreciate the time you spent with it.

Lia

[ccvulture]

The shifting of the seasons, the withering of time, and the hopefulness of a child, told at the point when he learns of hopelessness. A great piece of work.

i. The 5-stress metre trickles to echo the rushing stream of minnows - the little fish symbolic of the little child. The abrupt last line signals the untimely end of something, be it childhood or love. Leeches seem foreign to me so this reads like a final family holiday in the late summer. Favourite line "And you waited; watch poised, ready for tapping" - perfect pacing, the metre slowed almost to a halt.

ii. More complex metrics - I read a 4,6,5,5,4 // 5,5,6,6,3,3. Thus the first stanza mirrors a stroll from start through middle to end; the second stanza runs from straight narrative through plangent nostalgia to the simplistic plea and response of child and mother. "Not yet" repeated leaves a clue to future events and an air of suspense, inviting the reader to find out "when, when".

iii. "Silver snake" gives a sense of something precious and tempting yet elusive and escaping. The solitary opening line stands out by virtue of its contrast with the following couplets. Ditto in part iv. The enchanted wood setting contrasts nicely with the darkness of this, the point of departure.

iv. The trees line the river path and they speak their own tongue - impressive. She can't join in, perhaps because the trees symbolise men and she has become unable to understand them. Or are the "tired men leaning" just that - perhaps she joined a walking club; "one branch in particular" might claw her "the white sun" it if tried, but then she can't come down because she still is lost in the "lower garden" of part iii...?

v. The metre is less defined in this later part; it cleverly suggests dissolution in the protagonist. There is confusion in the pronouns - who is talking to whom, who looking at whom? It could be the lover, or a younger version of the protagonist. I admit to being confused by this part. Perhaps the reader must accept the secret as just that.

vi. It brings the poem into the child's focus, and marks out his journey. I think this is the hardest part to bear. Beautifully sad.

Stu

[David]

Lia, I'm sorry, I don't seem to have time to do this justice, but I must find the time (which I have) to say that I like this a lot. Really really good work.

David

[juliadebeauvoir]

The track north, follows along the bank. Silver
winds around such tired men leaning. They look
over their shoulders at the hills
arced and motionless.
One branch in particular,
could claw the white sun down
if it reached hard enough.

I loved this stanza and the rest of it too. I don't usually like longer poems but this one kept me interested--nice flow.
Good read,
Kimberly

[Rachel]

Hi Lia,

I really really enjoyed this. I loved the interplay between the changing of the seasons and the contrast between the mother and the innocence of the child, which combine to create this really wistful mood. I liked the separation of the stanzas too, which I thought mirrored the way someone tries to make sense of the break up of a relationship after it has happened- you know like, it began here, then this, then this, etc. I thought the stanza break up and titling of the stanzas gave quite a detached feel to the emotive words and images. Interesting.

Rachel

[Lia]

Thanks very much, Stu. It’s a rare thing receiving detailed interps and great to hear how a poem is understood on a few levels. I appreciate the time you spent. Glad you like this.

Thanks, David. I know what you mean about being busy. Perhaps it’s the time of year.. everyone seems to be flying about like mad hatters, me included.

Thank you, Kimberly. I’m glad, because I can’t seem to stay away from these long poems at the moment. I keep planning to write short ones and end up with one of these. I had considered writing a whole books worth in this way. Now that would be a long poem!

Rachel,

‘the way someone tries to make sense of the break up of a relationship after it has happened- you know like, it began here, then this, then this, etc.’ .. I believe this may have been my aim.

A poem broken into parts does seem to create a feeling of detachment.. I hadn’t noticed this. Thanks for your thoughts.

Lia

[Dreamburo]

iv. Ice on the Root

This time of year, the water won’t move.

The track north, follows along the bank. Silver
winds around such tired men leaning. They look
over their shoulders at the hills
arced and motionless.
One branch in particular,
could claw the white sun down
if it reached hard enough.

It is a gathering,
and I fail at their language--
all whispers and creaking. All bare limbs
tangling the cold sky with knots and splinters.

This is one of my favourite parts from a poem which I think sustains sadness and change beautifully and musically throughout. Yes, it sustains and develops themes like a piece of music would, and your longer form with breaks is very successful for that reason.

One question: is there a reason for "arced" instead of "arched"? Arced seems a little artificial given that such a close cousin is available...

The gathering of creaking old trees whose language the subject cannot speak is a powerful and wistful image which pulls the whole poem into focus.

I agree with the praises already sung by others, too. It was a pleasure to encounter your poem.

Luisetta

[dedalus]

Haunting. This is really, really good!