The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
Our Castle of Blown Glass.
We were the lucky generation -
or might have been
had we been stewards of the things we had,
not taken them for granted.
We lived the life and thought the thought,
whatever thought was a la mode,
whatever brought us Kudos by the K.
Freemen of the Castle of blown glass,
we counted ourselves Bless'd.
Would we sit to write a song? It wrote itself.
If we were hungry, fruit fell from the trees.
In every way and every day
life was ever sweet.
And in the glass walls we could see
the beauty that was us, the way society
takes nature by the scruff.
And through the walls another grace --
Nature the provider, ever offering the teat
and there for ever at our beck and call.
Elsewhere than here -- perhaps, we thought,
where the footings stood
on the long sleep of the long departed --
fissures ran, the famous glass had clouded.
We searched hard for the flaw,
distraught to think we could not see
what was before our eyes. Outsiders,
hungry near to death. Long columns of them.
Displaced and dispossessed...
We did not see them make their way
to a new and denser darkness
that we had never seen.
We were seduced by feelings of eternity;
the permanence of life. It was not so.
The fault lines ran through us, and only then
through that which bore our name.
We had the eyes that dim when strangers starve.
What use to us were walls of glass?
They saw no more, we saw no more,
than through a wall of brass.
Written For Mary's prompt The Castle of Glass at Poetry Jam.