Against Hands

[thefallofRome]

.


Palms damp like the surface
of contemptuous stones
on the steaming, still riverbank;

Fingers—knuckles—
like aching hills of a burned homeland,
often bloody and almost sharp;

Nails clipped short, cracked and unclean;
Thick wrists.


Your two hands—

My life’s first scale,
weighing the fear against the need,
a life of the flesh,
my resignation against
the truth of the next world.
The shine of the sea against
the glass in my eyes. As if you were God
and justice only a whim.
The imbalance—
the weight—

.

[barrie]

Your two hands separates both parts of the poem very effectively. I'm not 100% certain as to the meaning of the second part, but it sounds like a struggle between flesh and spirit,

a life of the flesh,
my resignation against
the truth of the next world.

A couple of suggestions for the first verse -

Palms damp like the surface
of contemptuous stones
on steaming riverbanks. Omit the article and use the plural - I'd leave out still because riverbanks usually are (plus three st's in a row could be mistaken for a stutter).

nice one

Barrie

[Elphin]

I liked where this was going right down to weighing the fear against the need then it became a bit abstract for my taste.

The first part is the stronger. I liked the comparison of palms to wet stones. I agree with barrie on still. I would also drop fingers and just have knuckles, I think they fit the simile well.

elphin

[Pomme de Terre]

I think that the ending is the most effective part of this poem. Whilst the preceding lines are a bit heavy and vague (I think religious poetry should avoid using "God" and rather focus on the emotions and thoughts and experiences of God), they add an overbearing 'weight' on the last two lines.

Also, good use of free verse: you managed to separate sentences where they most needed separation and you've created a rhythm all of your own.

[alexander]

There is some lovely, tactile imagery here, and it is excellent how the physical is used as a spring-board into the metaphysical.
The first two stanzas play lightly with the parts of the hand, flitting through rural images. The "palms" are soft, sensitive and passive, like the un-menacing and yet unsettling "contemptuous stones", which seem to have grown arrogant in their longevity. It is interesting to see how these associations work: palms-passivity-longevity contrasts with knuckles-violence-brevity.

Fingers—knuckles—
like aching hills of a burned homeland,
often bloody and almost sharp;

The image holds true here, as knuckles are close enough to those "aching hills". Fingers are the productive parts of the hand, knuckles are the destructive edge. Both knuckles and hills are "bloody"; here we find a wholly different side of rural existence: dryness, death, pain, a "burned homeland" where nothing grows. It is this thematic shift towards the rough that manifests itself further down the hands, in

Nails clipped short, cracked and unclean;

workmanlike and gritty, determined and perhaps strengthened by the presence of

Thick wrists.

Suddenly, as the first full-stop demands the largest pause of the poem thus far, hands are given ownership, suddenly becoming meaningful synechdoche.

Your two hands—

My life’s first scale,

Hands as a scale -- indeed, the hand is a unit of measurement -- as the visual representation of metaphysical "weighing up" of different things; these hands become the pans of the scales held by lady justice. Hands become the interactive parts of the human,

weighing the fear against the need

As the poem drifts further from the physical we can sense a debate on the purpose of life, of ascetism and spiritual chastity weighed up against "a life of the flesh". There are the faint murmurs of a sermon echoing in the lines

my resignation against
the truth of the next world.

The question that is being asked -- behind a veil of fluttering verse -- is whether Whitman was right to say "the soul is not more than the body". Our appreciation hinges on whether we too agree that flesh can become poetry. Perhaps wisely, the arguments themselves are not trotted out, for the sheer bulk of philosophical rhetoric necessary would surely crowd such a poem.

Here, in the final stanza, there is a return to that empty, placid place where the poem began, with stones and water and forever. Here is the ascetic salt water which is so far from the "flesh" of life. We do not directly see the scene, but it is reflected into our vision as

The shine of the sea against
the glass in my eyes.

Perhaps now it becomes obvious what is being "weighed up" by this poem in a slick metaphysical conceit. The hands represent both sides of the potential debate, their constituent parts exist in different worlds, like the Old Testament Hebrew god and his more peaceful Christian counterpart. Here is action and inaction; violent, emotional, sensuous life-force contrasting with measured, quiet, cold, barren tranquillity. In this maelstrom, there is no obvious answer.

It could be that this is why the two scales of justice return as hands. Duality is here in the simile: "As if you were God", but not quite. This is an address to a human, and yet the speaker is demanding the answer of an immortal. The person to which these final comments are addressed is blamed for such passivity, almost negligence that "justice [is] only a whim". The light reflected in the speaker's eyes, and by association this conflict, is seen in these eponymous hands

The imbalance—
the weight—

.

And then there is only silence.