Revision
Hmm. Opening up the form some gives:
How Can I Mourn?
How can I mourn when all the world is spring?
Understand - waking in the night I heard a bird
calling others out of shadow. They flung
their songs like children's balls
as light flooded the barren sky.
Can I weep, when the weeping of the world is a haze
of dew on severed grass? That grass still grows, dotted with daisies;
their knotted heads still open every morning.
When winter's aching gut unclenches,
when it sleeps with the sun-bellied cats or springs,
shaking its ears, away from sudden showers,
shall I clutch my own ache like a lover?
When blossoms bounce from angry, battered wood,
when new leaves are eyes fresh opening,
are mouths that gobble sunlight,
shall I lower my own? Shall I swallow laughter?
This gaudy riot calls me out. Forgive
me if I leave you, dear,
in that cold, silent dark.
Please.
**
I like this one better, I think. The other version was small and pretty and easy to understand - this fish, is a bit larger. I feel happy now.
How Can I Mourn?
How can I mourn when all the world is spring?
Understand - waking in the night I heard a bird
calling others out of shadow. They flung
their songs like children's balls
as light flooded the barren sky.
Can I weep, when the weeping of the world is a haze
of dew on severed grass? That grass still grows, dotted with daisies;
their knotted heads still open every morning.
When winter's aching gut unclenches,
when it sleeps with the sun-bellied cats or springs,
shaking its ears, away from sudden showers,
shall I clutch my own ache like a lover?
When blossoms bounce from angry, battered wood,
when new leaves are eyes fresh opening,
are mouths that gobble sunlight,
shall I lower my own? Shall I swallow laughter?
This gaudy riot calls me out. Forgive
me if I leave you, dear,
in that cold, silent dark.
Please.
**
I like this one better, I think. The other version was small and pretty and easy to understand - this fish, is a bit larger. I feel happy now.
posted by theamazingcatherine | 11:22 am
2 Comments:
Yep, I like it lots better. It's got the feeling that all the prettiness is cloaking a great big emotion instead of just the prettiness.
The bit about birds throwing songs to each other reminds me of the road I take walking home in the evenings. There's a large greenbelt and the road winds a lot so in the evenings there'll be all these isolated birds (tuis I think) chuckling at each other dotted around the trees from all sides.
Steph
In the movie world it is said that scripts are not written, but re-written again and again until it works, and even in the middle of a movie a script can be re-written.
It seems that this is also true about great poetry.
Mike
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