The swallowed clock

You create art here whose passion is reflected in this impressionist looking glass of literary beauty.

Xo
John

Xo thank you so much dear friend

Thank you very much

Thank you very much

I'm reminded of Blake, Auguries of Innocence. To see a world in a grain of sand. And a heaven in a wild flower. Hold infinity in the palm of your hand. And eternity in an hour. Gorgeous, with teeming spirit and haunting as it passes in breath and fog.

That’s beautiful Daniel. Thank you always my darling friend ❤️

I can feel the river of time in this poem, its invisible presence that wears rust eyelets into metal and erodes mountains. To feel and portray such a long suffering presence in the blink of a human life time is something that requires exquisite insight and honesty. There is choice, sensations and consequence throughout, I can feel their gravity, counter weighting the musings. The title I think encompasses all that I have said in and of itself, the swallowed clock, much like the metaphor of the bitter pill, time is not something we pass through, but something that passes through us. I’m reminded of the old axiom, time is the fire in which we burn, when I read this poem over with a critical eye and let it reach into and connect with my personal experience. She opens with this visual metaphor of the hourglass, rendered quite intimate in her details, it’s soft curves cup and hold like hands or the womb. The abdomen of the glass she decribes as a flute in chrystalline delicacy. Notice she closes with the word aye here and again a few times, undoubtedly a deliberate repeat, a kind of knowing, accepting affirmation. She goes on to describe time as something indistinct, maddeningly so, that you mix and imbibe, an earthy rendering and I can’t help but think of it as the kind of poison one injects in an exacting chemical dosage to build immunity or purge the system of some toxin and I suppose, through its measured crawl, we do daily ingest time. Here it seems the inevitable personal experience of time is met, as she speak of the killing floor, the stain on her lips almost seems a kind of admission of guilt, dancing with fairy feet on the dead seems to be a gorgeously stark way of describing the elation of living with some dim awareness that so many have gone to the quiet dust beneath our feet, some awareness of the magic of knowing our own impermanence, and yet, in never having tasted our own death, we have that sense of magic, of immortality. The lost boy seems a lament of our powerlessness against the march of time and the simultaneous hope that, somehow, things will work out in the end, that there will be some deus ex machina, for us. A poem about time is a kind of stop gap against it, in a way. A still frame of a life that marches on mercilessly. It makes me think of curious ash mummies of pompei, frozen in a final position, stone markers casting shadows on a sun dial. What I love most is where she chooses to close, however. This final confession of here being in the thick and throws of living, with her toes in the muck, reminds me of how the lotus grows from the mud, everything emerges from and returns to the primordial, but has its glorious hours of bloom. It seems a common malady that we diminish our lives by a fixation upon their end. The delicate eros of the moon, closing with his silent laughter, it is as if, in the final image of this beautiful poem, the moon is whispering its long suffering wisdom of the flow of life itself and how we much relax into the stream of time and embrace our simultaneous impermanence of form and immortality as part of the eternal continuity of being and experience. I love that it closes in a place that says serenity, to me.

Oh my gosh Daniel...♥️♥️♥️🙏🙏🙏

Very powerful and polished command of language.

Thank you very much lozzamus🙏

" have a love affair
With the moon"
I like how you not only invoke emotional expression here but also clear images that encapsulate the overall theme of time and healing.
Great work.