again, the spicy stew
fiery face the angel of my death
stone piled on stone the uncleaned flu
faggots of a life lived random
the flesh consumed I see your charred
memory in these fierce tongues
dancing in the hearth
jambalaya and your poor song
still stirs the pot in the dreamer's
kitchen my feelings salted and seduced
again and again now a bit like jerky
cutup in the stew but less chilis less
fucking more stereo'ed melody
the loss and lariats tossing jumping
over your damn memory your damn
breasts in these damaged hands was
that 1980, the last terrible year of
the loss of you and the loss of you
and the loss of you ...
maiden, mother, crone
(kelly, alison, cynthia)
all specifically arranged
to hold me in my sorrows waiting
for the segue to the kingdom (in
those days I thought it was a kingdom)
now the pot stinks from disuse the
bacon diced and starting to crackle
the rice dumped in so many single
kernels on the calender and me,
is it shrimp or sausage? is it the
buckley sex gene or the pope impotent?
no jalapenos, perhaps serrano, perhaps
ancho, perhaps things new from the
earth a gratitude there is a soil there
are the poems of root & stem I see
Her delight even as it passes me by
I see Her valley many walking through
it in and out the ancient dance the
ceremony starting, living, leaving,
you hold my hand I feel your
lacy hours slipping in the drama
of your lawyer's life the dreams
integument the chalice of your offering
still hidden that little room above
bond street your parenthetical remarks
on this list oh the maiden descended
to hades the crone her breasts missing
now still twirls the lariat proud of
what she doesn't care to understand
no one is a reminder of Who She Is
and everyone is a ghost of what
She Must Be... keep yourself open
in the wind so the stem may grow up
carrying the poem of the species
have a cup of stew
return to the great song you have sung
everything will be said, in truth
everything will be known
Originally published as "Jambalaya" about four years ago, this is an early attempt to deal with the wreckage of my personal life and the weird damage that my relationships did to the feast that is this life. I love the metaphors that come from a lifetime of cooking. The Lady features in this too. A reminder then, of Who She Is.
stone piled on stone the uncleaned flu
faggots of a life lived random
the flesh consumed I see your charred
memory in these fierce tongues
dancing in the hearth
jambalaya and your poor song
still stirs the pot in the dreamer's
kitchen my feelings salted and seduced
again and again now a bit like jerky
cutup in the stew but less chilis less
fucking more stereo'ed melody
the loss and lariats tossing jumping
over your damn memory your damn
breasts in these damaged hands was
that 1980, the last terrible year of
the loss of you and the loss of you
and the loss of you ...
maiden, mother, crone
(kelly, alison, cynthia)
all specifically arranged
to hold me in my sorrows waiting
for the segue to the kingdom (in
those days I thought it was a kingdom)
now the pot stinks from disuse the
bacon diced and starting to crackle
the rice dumped in so many single
kernels on the calender and me,
is it shrimp or sausage? is it the
buckley sex gene or the pope impotent?
no jalapenos, perhaps serrano, perhaps
ancho, perhaps things new from the
earth a gratitude there is a soil there
are the poems of root & stem I see
Her delight even as it passes me by
I see Her valley many walking through
it in and out the ancient dance the
ceremony starting, living, leaving,
you hold my hand I feel your
lacy hours slipping in the drama
of your lawyer's life the dreams
integument the chalice of your offering
still hidden that little room above
bond street your parenthetical remarks
on this list oh the maiden descended
to hades the crone her breasts missing
now still twirls the lariat proud of
what she doesn't care to understand
no one is a reminder of Who She Is
and everyone is a ghost of what
She Must Be... keep yourself open
in the wind so the stem may grow up
carrying the poem of the species
have a cup of stew
return to the great song you have sung
everything will be said, in truth
everything will be known
Originally published as "Jambalaya" about four years ago, this is an early attempt to deal with the wreckage of my personal life and the weird damage that my relationships did to the feast that is this life. I love the metaphors that come from a lifetime of cooking. The Lady features in this too. A reminder then, of Who She Is.
posted by As Bjorn at 4:18 PM
2 Comments:
I came away feeling there was a novel or short story buried in this poem. It might pull you away from the Pothos that has you in its grip. You would do well to decouple it from the past... it wants to rage forward and become something new. Or at least that is what i feel. Sorry you are struggling with health issues, Tim.
J
OF course, there is a life buried in this story. The distance between the days lived and the stories told has become indistinguishable now. A novel? A way out? An understanding? The journey is never over, the road goes ever on and on. See you on the other side, I am pretty sure. You, and the many others.
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