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Author: Soul-Hugger
ASL Info:    33/F/Canada
Elite Ratio:    8 - 409 /222 /66
Words: 197
Class/Type: Poetry /Love
Total Views: 2031
Average Vote:    5.0000
Bytes: 1312


September 01, 2010


The end of summer looms on this first day of September,
yet it's always been my favourite time of year -
a time for gathering, like the grass gathers dew
like the hobos I once sheltered gathered blankets
or the sky gathers stars.

I came from humble beginnings;
an assemblage of cells, a grouping
of souls, the earth.

I came from the streets
where sloping pools of orange light swim
through seas of tar
in a swell of darkness.

I was one of the lost ones who embraced the night,
the knife-edge of pain,
the self-stabbing, self-questioning, selfsame abyss
where few are welcomed
and fewer escape.

You accept this, knowing
the similarity of beginnings.
You know the transcendence that has taken place,
that the pain that displaced was a stream,
a forward-going beam, a comet,
an outbound direction from the solar plexus of being.

I have been grains that groveled,
shells on shores.
I have been the wrinkled note in an old pair of jeans,
the unwanted tattoo.
I have been Septembers and Mays,
Decembers and Junes.

But all this led to you,
a genesis.

Submitted on 2010-09-03 14:21:33     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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  I read and re-read this. I keep thinking about the lines that speak plain truth.

"I was one of the lost ones who embraced the night,
the knife-edge of pain,
the self-stabbing, self-questioning, selfsame abyss
where few are welcomed
and fewer escape"

It reminds me of how I saw my life.

| Posted on 2011-01-21 00:00:00 | by ShadowsnLights | [ Reply to This ]
  This is so lovely.

I really like the straightforward nature of your lines- how you give us basic truths, basically written, amid your more glowing imagery.

The transitions from September to gathering is sublime. The very idea of it appeals to me, how intuitive that link feels in my stomach. And the things you chose t express this gathering- it speaks volumes about you as a person, yet you manage to make it feel universal, too. I think every poem should be a little like that: relateable, but individual, telling about the author. My favourite writer who does this is Katharine Kilea- I'll pm you some of her pieces, they're glorious.

'sloping pools of orange light swim', 'gathering of cells', 'seas of tar'-- the images you write are delicious, they throw everything into sharp relief, this darkness versus light. I think it so easily could have become cliché imagery, but all these belong to you and you alone. They call to mind this painter. All I can remember about him is that he's from South America, and he paints these amazing and beautiful pictures of women, all shadows and light and nothing inbetween. This is like that- you contrast everything you write with its opposite.

'self-stabbing, self-questioning, selfsame abys'-- this is stark because it's so direct, and your repetition makes me feel like your drumming your old distress into me. Like I can't get away from it.

Your fourth stanza- I like the criss-crossed rhymes, how subtle they are, they make it read like a song. A hymn to this person who has seen you transcend, and loved you for it.

I agree with Em about the last line, I think melding them would make it stronger, too. Less halting, more embracing. But it's your poem, and it's good either way.

Take care,

| Posted on 2010-09-07 00:00:00 | by AlyRose | [ Reply to This ]
  This reads to me like a prose poem -- which in my mind is to say it is less concerned with poetical language as it is for poetical connections. Here the beauty of connections are plainly, though still eloquently, put. It could be just as readily and satisfactorily read in paragraph or stanzaic form, which I find lovely -- though I am not suggesting you put it in paragraphs at all. I think the form is perfect as you have it.

I suppose what I am getting at is that it is structurally sound regardless of its form.

If that makes any more damn sense than I'm already not making.

Anyway, September and fall in general gives a sense of harvest to things, and so the way your first stanza "gathers" is very fitting. I also like how you move from the ground up (from grass, to hobos to sky) and how these things reflect the beginning of season that has many faces. It also reads as prelude to the rest of the poem, something to jump start what you want to say, setting the scene so to speak, to make way and perhaps provide some cushioning for the personal to begin, your own humble ones a gathering too.

I especially like this "the self-stabbing, self-questioning, selfsame abyss" for its repetition and emotional/poetic prowess. And "that the pain that displaced was a stream, / a forward-going beam, a comet, / an unknown direction from the solar plexus of being." -- the sonics are so lovely here, and the words bear weight. I believe that these lines are the heart of the poem. That wayward direction, that lost emptiness, unsure of the destination, unsure of the wanting. It speaks of creation and the confusion that happens in the aftermath as you try to search out your niche.

Amazingly, that niche can be found in someone else -- and hopefully permanently so. And in finding that person, you can also find reason for the journey, the bumpy roads and colossal mountains, others you met along the way. It reminds me a bit of the last part of my "parable" write, not to integrate myself here, but just that need for reconciliation, understanding and, well, love.

My only critique of this is your ending. The sentiment is there and fits perfectly, but could be better realized. Perhaps:

"I have been Septembers and Mays,
Decemebers and Junes."

but all this led to the Genesis
of you."

or "of me and you"

or "us"

or something. In other words, maybe play around with it.

Lovely write -- good to see you posting.

| Posted on 2010-09-04 00:00:00 | by Lady of Shalott | [ Reply to This ]
  This is delightful! Very reflective, pervasive, and given to many metaphors! We start as a lump of clay, which the maker fashions into a work of art, but not before being spun on the treadle, formed by artisan hands, and baked in the fire!
| Posted on 2010-09-03 00:00:00 | by Ron Cole | [ Reply to This ]

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