you and i in seven pieces (for One Shot Wednesday)
1.
a flower basket moon—
tilting from a swing of arms
in revolving doors
our sighs uncompleted in the eaves
a storm hanging by a cloud
2.
squalling gulls
rip our day in shreds–
the only sound
between us and the stones
and the dying flowers
3.
why the mimosa
shrinks in pain at our steps–
i search for your scent
you squint from its thorns
i sip drops of night dew
4.
darkness leaves us blind
we grope for our eyes but find
our lips like embers
on a bed of pebbles left to die–
we thrum like restless stars
5.
we reap our moaning
gather folds of reticent dawn
into my breast–
you slice away your pain
my flesh thins out in your hands
6.
i beg for the sun
lodged in the cleavage of morning–
you toss it flaming
your destiny line singed
the line of your heart scarred
7.
i lie in wait–
the next moon comes astride
the east wind raging
washing away whirlpools of dust
baring the sun i conceived
soleil levant by Claude Monet 1872 courtesy of wikipedia
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About
autumn wind
wondering about lilies
in a mountain pond
Tell me a writer who really gets a satisfying jornal, in Spanish a daily wage or its equivalent, and I’ll bare a spirit in constant bouts of doubtfulness. Does a writer earn more because of what he writes and how he does it? Or is a writer paid more or less because of who he is? Is it money or honor he expects to receive?
Ahhh … but money as wage, and praise or honor as reward would be too predictable, too common as Job lamented in the Book of Job. It is in these lines that read: “Is not man’s life on earth nothing more than pressed service, his times no better than hired drudgery? Like the slave, sighing for the shade, or the workman with no thought but his wages, months of delusion I have assigned to me, nothing for my own but nights of grief. Lying in bed I wonder, ‘When will it be day?’ Risen I think, ‘How slowly evening comes!’
Restlessly I fret till twilight falls. Swifter than a weaver’s shuttle my days have passed, and vanished, leaving no hope behind. Remember that my life is but a breath, and that my eyes will never again see joy.”
Not money but joy is the ultimate wage as the passage implies. And joy is not hard to earn for it is in everyday life if we have eyes to see, a nose to smell, fingers to touch, ears to hear–a heart beating. This to me, is how a writer earns a daily wage. His wages then take the guise of treasures his heart can transfigure into a universe of thought that taps into other hearts, that causes a swirl in the depth of other souls, or that makes wings to sprout on leaden heels.
Sometimes not joy but rueful, poignant moments are my pick. Take what I earned once: On my walk home in my neighborhood, I caught two clumps of snowdrops–such tiny blossoms smaller than fingertips that do not look up but shyly droop close to black patches on the ground winter has frozen. That afternoon in the frosty wind, they trembled as if ready to turn away and run but how could they? For that poignant moment on seeing the wintry rain beat on the fragile snowdrop–as if pushing it to go home now, go to sleep–I earned my jornal, my daily wage.
Once on summer walk, the crackle of dried leaves just hit me both like the laughter of children and sobs long suppressed. Neither one of them would resolve the dryness, but I recalled how each does bring tears: laughter for joy, sobs for healing that comes with the release of a dammed-up pain. My jornal that day came as two haiku.
Fall has since shortened the day and the heart begins to crave for lost space that it doesn’t even recall which or where. I feel that most treasures have turned into mush so much so I wouldn’t be able to sift them off the ground. Yet I caught the dying day yesterday–so glorious in the gold of autumn it opened a flip side of serene heaven. Blades of grass coated in diadems of rain that carpet the lawns render royal walks poor by imitation. A burst of red maple against an inky blue sky humbled me, a soul bragging about her skill to recreate beauty in words.
I suppose I’m taking Job’s reflections to heart. I’d rather not gloss over each day and look beyond what’s there, right before me, or else fragile as is my breath one day “my eyes may never again see joy” to write. With what then will I compare the eternal joy, the ultimate wage I await?
Yet for now, as other eyes hanker to make the invisible visible, I put a tag on some moments of joy. Like on seeing the snowdrops, I paid myself $200 as my jornal.
What could have been yours?
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jornales 
Lovely poem, each section is like a small jewel. Great One Shot!
Thanks for this wonderful visit, Steve, and an even more uplifting comment!
Gorgeous poem, Ali. Lyrical, a fantasia of imagery– sensuous and rich. I especially love these lines:
darkness leaves us blind
we grope for our eyes but find
our lips like embers
on a bed of pebbles left to die–
we thrum like restless stars
5.
we reap our moaning
gather folds of reticent dawn
into my breast–
you slice away your pain
my flesh thins out in your hands
No. 5 especially a masterful stanza– so beautiful. xxxj
Humbling words from you, Jenne! I’m truly honored.
i agree this was a delight…flower basket moon is a great opening picture in contrast to the birds tearing…the ups and downs are nice….
I’m always revved up with your ‘reading’ of my shots, Brian! Always thrilled to know you’ve enjoyed yet another one–this!
Sad and wistful, a slow walk of disintegration, yet beautiful as well, each little mental nugget of memory and place treasured despite pain, one feels. The image of the sun, the palmistry references all give this yet more layers. Subtle and rewarding write, Alegria. Liked it very much.
Truth is, I think I have in mind the very discriminating poetic minds of OSP writers but especially yours when I post a piece for OSW!!! And for OSS, too, of course! Really with you, I’ve understood my craft better, gaining mastery each time from your comments as well as from reading those of others at the site, in particular, yours–your use of form is something I have yet to explore.
This poem flowed as un-selfconsciously as blood in my veins. It ‘s apparently one more fruition I’ve conceived from layers of joy, pain, bliss, dawns, sunsets, desert midnights and noon-crests. Thank you so much, again, Joy! With each word from you… I feel reborn!
A beautiful poem that seems fitting to be accompanied by an impressionist landscape. And while your poem has many lovely lines, it is not without a sense of destruction…
“you slice away your pain
my flesh thins out in your hands”
Either way I read this passage it makes me think of a delicatessen; though in terms of self-sacrifice, or being intensely affected by another.
“…a delicatessen…” what a wonderful way to put it, Adam! A place where delight is served for the senses yet an experience fulfilled only if the choice ‘affects’ the spirit. Indeed, it could be pain or joy or the many other ways of the body ruminating with the mind and spirit. Thank you so much, again!
Wow-worthy, perfect. One of the best poems I’ve read today (I’ve read a hundred posted writings today).
Wow! From you, Steve, always so honored! Thank you!
Glad I discovered you. I’ll be back!
Do come back, Tim! Glad you came by.
Alee9, I’d like to feature an excerpt of this in a journal where I write a monthly column. Can you please email me so we talk about how I can reprint three lines and still honor your “copyright notice”?
I’d be honored, Marcus. My copyright attribution is on the right hand-side of my home page. Thanks for cominy by!