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A Toast, to Renewal
One slave child flayed by the chilly words
“You own naught but your name”
Who planned an exit through the womb
From which the poets came
He seized his leather collar, at dawn
And still bound in chains, did pray
Turning his sunburned body
To embrace the coming day
The wicked manufacture kings
In bodies of blood and salt
But there’s glory in the sunrise
The weary farmer
It exalts
I drowned in pools of stagnant peace
And such a death was sweet
To trade air for the Chalice
Christ’s body left, to eat
I abandoned the rhythm of my heart
For the trumpets of the sea
Engraved on the teeth of the dragon—
A wry apology
As Spring, so lovely, tore into
The crispy silk of curled cocoons
Revealing fire and crescent moons
“Behold,” her honey lips called out
Unto the basin of the morning sky
And with a fluttering of wings
“At last— a butterfly!”
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This article has 17 comments.
The last stanza especially intrigued me, going from slavery and bondage in the beginning, but finishing with freedom and wings - butterflies! - in the end. Another exemplary poem, my Feathery Bard - why am I not surprised? :)
You couldn't even see her glow?
Heart hugs are always the very best.
The last stanza, as often happens now, was written first. It came to me on a morning where I was feeling very depressed, and I feel like it came from the morning. So yes, the poem reached into my soul, and its fingers gave my heart a little hug.
I went outside to see the half-moon last night, but it was hiding behind the trees. I called out, but it was silent.
Oh really? I haven't read her work in a while, but she's a wonderful poet.
Let's hope he/she makes a quick return to the land of Teenink soon.
Did what help?
What a glowing description, you shining lady of rainbow colors!
Hmm. A difficult question. There's a substance to the end, just as there is to the beginning and the middle. It can be the substance of death, of evening, of finality, of continuity, or the predecessor of renewal. Perhaps you are allowing yourself to be carried by the poems up to the tipping point, when you are ready to take a might leap! A joyous thing, for an end. Like a phoenix.
Indeed they do, and I'm grateful for the reminder.
The slave child does not necessarily need to be the "I," but you're the master of the poem when you read it, so you decide. :)
'Course! A delightful individual to say in the least. Pity, though, I haven't heard from him/her in a frightfully long time.
Did it help?
Beautifully gorgeous.
The colors of brown, sepia, and honey, possibly even in that order. Sprinkled with droplets of green, gold, white, pink, and blue. A dash of red catches the eye unawares.
I seem to like last stanzas more frequently lately. What could that mean?
(The words come eventually, even if you have to wait a bit.)
