under the trees that surround us.
They wither and crinkle
like the leaves
of our silent masses
until they are snatched,
half-gone, by the wind--
or else fully fall into themselves
to rot back into our soils.
Because what can a mountain do but sing?
Creatures so old we no longer expect age
to do anything but
wipe the beards from our chins
like some celestial shaving cream
we leave words
as testament to a voice
that now only sighs
to keep the trees dancing.
Coming to you from Halifax in a hostel called Backpackers. Highly recommended although in a scary part of town if you're skittish that way...
Also: big news regarding poetics! But I'll tell you next time.
3 comments:
This was so picturesque! I felt like I was in Halifax. The first stanza is my favourite. I just love the idea of mountains as poets (or is it poets as mountains?), and the poems as leaves...it feels so organic but at the same time timeless.
"until they are snatched,
half-gone, by the wind--
or else fully fall into themselves
to rot back into our soils."
I like how the rhythm here changes from kind of staccato to a smoother flow. It felt like the words were fluttering and then settling on the ground.
The only thing I didn't like was the second stanza in the middle, with the line "like some celestial shaving cream." It kind of broke the mood for me, even though the image in my mind fits. I think it's the word shaving cream...it's unnatural and distinctly human. It took me out of the mountainous landscape. But then you went right back into it with the next four lines, so it worked out. Hurray!
I actually liked that line, because it was so unexpected and out there compared to the rest of the poem. Which by the way, I really enjoyed.
Hmm. Now I'm unsure about the "shaving cream" bit. Would the following lines--
"wipe the beard from our chins
with a blunt, heavy
celestial knife"
--work better, d'you think?
I wonder.
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