deepundergroundpoetry.com
Ode to the living from the city of death
"I have been here before
but when or how I cannot tell
I know the grass beyond the door
the sweet keen smell
the sighing sound, the lights
around the shore"
~Dante Gabriel Rossetti
strange how the rains came down
the soft patter enveloped by cold
I was lost in that slant observation
host to the un-enamored
long runs and shackled halls, fill the city of Dis
those we've left behind
moored and parallel
creak from their wooden casket
we hear only plea, sigh, toil, grief
wade the black pool, sulfur to dying lung
thy balm past, shadows and present
a simple curse, an old return
whet blades only carve splitting clamshell
drowning in blood, vessel and pliant sinew
strings pull taut to resonate music
an empty tome says nothing without scribble
I've heard a heartbeat as I ran through the forest
bled from my ears in cities of noise
the white light sparking from the trash
this heat is heavens glow
even atheist huddle holding up hands
save all, these walking dead
comb not, institution, trappings mundane
blather repeated, spinning in circle
cautious eyes burn whilst stareing
stuck here...
for now, I'll skate the thick ice
parlay by three (.14) in love with figure eight
but when or how I cannot tell
I know the grass beyond the door
the sweet keen smell
the sighing sound, the lights
around the shore"
~Dante Gabriel Rossetti
strange how the rains came down
the soft patter enveloped by cold
I was lost in that slant observation
host to the un-enamored
long runs and shackled halls, fill the city of Dis
those we've left behind
moored and parallel
creak from their wooden casket
we hear only plea, sigh, toil, grief
wade the black pool, sulfur to dying lung
thy balm past, shadows and present
a simple curse, an old return
whet blades only carve splitting clamshell
drowning in blood, vessel and pliant sinew
strings pull taut to resonate music
an empty tome says nothing without scribble
I've heard a heartbeat as I ran through the forest
bled from my ears in cities of noise
the white light sparking from the trash
this heat is heavens glow
even atheist huddle holding up hands
save all, these walking dead
comb not, institution, trappings mundane
blather repeated, spinning in circle
cautious eyes burn whilst stareing
stuck here...
for now, I'll skate the thick ice
parlay by three (.14) in love with figure eight
Published 18th Dec 2016
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 4
reading list entries 1
comments 8
reads 797
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
18th Dec 2016 5:03pm
Sir Soul... this is quite an ode...something to behold...your delivery is hard to not fall in love with! all aspects am in awe... will hold onto this beautifully rendered piece of art!! thank You!
18th Dec 2016 5:07pm
It is I who must thank You!!!
Wow, I appreciate such kindness- Humbled Indeed!!!
Wow, I appreciate such kindness- Humbled Indeed!!!
Anonymous
- Edited 27th Dec 2019 12:45pm
18th Dec 2016 9:03pm
<< post removed >>
18th Dec 2016 9:52pm
Deeply Appreciated Dear Queen!!!
I hope You saw the specks of underlying light as well.
I hope You saw the specks of underlying light as well.
Anonymous
19th Dec 2016 1:21am
Something's are embedded so deep, they can never be forgotten...you made me smile by many things in this beauty but when i saw 8, i knew that you will always know and remember, thank you xo
19th Dec 2016 1:38am
There are three ways to view/interpret this diddy.
But the gems are there because of You...maybe even ones You can't see lol....but I tease.
Details...an infinite amount Stay!!!
But the gems are there because of You...maybe even ones You can't see lol....but I tease.
Details...an infinite amount Stay!!!
19th Dec 2016 5:03pm
The imagery of this is beautiful, Soul. But more than that is the emotion evoked while reading. The opening quote is one of my favorites for personal reasons, so my attention was captured immediately into the verse.
This one line stopped me in breath:
an empty tome says nothing without scribble
I've never thought about how true that actually is - that in all the hovel of stone left of us all, there is only the remaining chisel that speaks to our minds, breaking the silence of who or what once was. Perhaps even us.
The first stanza description of rain is unique in that we, our attention, does play host to the mundane as simple as rain, something people don't think twice about except getting wet; or, staying dry as the case may be. The cemetery imagery followed by the rain sets the somber mood of the entire piece - moored and parallel; long runs and shackled halls - excellent observations in something so matter-of-fact in our lives.
The splitting of the clams takes me back to Scotland, the land of my father's ancestry, to a small shipping village on the east coast called Aberdeenshire. (My mother's has been traced back to Isle of Skye). My father took me to Aberdeenshire when we lived in England and I'll never forget the experience (though too young to appreciate the historical value of it). If I could go back and describe watching those clams split, it would be the stanza from this poem. Excellent.
Your log of the homeless, the fires from trashcans, no religious (or non thereof) preventing the conjoining for warmth. It's true, our basic needs to survive are all the same despite systems of belief we feel define us. The subsequent escape to the ice as though a childhood memory relived from the harsh reality of life is a brilliant way to end. It's childlike, hopeful, and curbs the darkness of poem overall with the imagery of whitened ice and playfulness. Thought it doesn't eradicate nor try to ignore the realms of life surrounding it. Just takes the moment and glides infinitely in the enjoyment of it.
Beautiful read.
This one line stopped me in breath:
an empty tome says nothing without scribble
I've never thought about how true that actually is - that in all the hovel of stone left of us all, there is only the remaining chisel that speaks to our minds, breaking the silence of who or what once was. Perhaps even us.
The first stanza description of rain is unique in that we, our attention, does play host to the mundane as simple as rain, something people don't think twice about except getting wet; or, staying dry as the case may be. The cemetery imagery followed by the rain sets the somber mood of the entire piece - moored and parallel; long runs and shackled halls - excellent observations in something so matter-of-fact in our lives.
The splitting of the clams takes me back to Scotland, the land of my father's ancestry, to a small shipping village on the east coast called Aberdeenshire. (My mother's has been traced back to Isle of Skye). My father took me to Aberdeenshire when we lived in England and I'll never forget the experience (though too young to appreciate the historical value of it). If I could go back and describe watching those clams split, it would be the stanza from this poem. Excellent.
Your log of the homeless, the fires from trashcans, no religious (or non thereof) preventing the conjoining for warmth. It's true, our basic needs to survive are all the same despite systems of belief we feel define us. The subsequent escape to the ice as though a childhood memory relived from the harsh reality of life is a brilliant way to end. It's childlike, hopeful, and curbs the darkness of poem overall with the imagery of whitened ice and playfulness. Thought it doesn't eradicate nor try to ignore the realms of life surrounding it. Just takes the moment and glides infinitely in the enjoyment of it.
Beautiful read.
20th Dec 2016 6:37am
TY for such time and astute observation Ahavati!!!
(And personal share)
Timbre in time, places, heartbeat and philosophy ;)
(And personal share)
Timbre in time, places, heartbeat and philosophy ;)
