on this river i borrow -------------------------------------------
on this river i was baptized in,
in the upstate mud flowing south,
i am brown as earth.
scorched with realization.
molded and shaped to be.
in this minute. in this second.
in this something with no name.
tears and strawberries seed a subtle wind;
become the juice
in this hand-hold of being.
this soul of me, this heart of me,
intertwines with all that is beautiful.
all that is ugly.
all that is blackwhitecoloredred
I've heard some poetry spoken aloud recently. And what strikes me is that even some of my favorite published famous-ass poets still read like grad school students.
So don't dare read this like that. Because this poem begs to be read with passion. It gathers up this raw earth, shapes it into clay, pours sweet messy fruit into it and through some kind of powerful fermentation pours forth blood-red wine and then, surprise, it uses all of this only to highlight that which lays underneath, that nameless thing you were aware of only in contrast, something far more interesting than simply frolicking in the mess of life and calling it meaning, a pale white ghost of a memory that knows nothing of mess and everything of being and being whole, of being before being, of waiting to be connected or reconnected and GOD have we not all been here before and perhaps mistakenly maybe called upon some name of the thing which this is most certainly is not and definitely is more than.