In the beginning was the word.
Not quite. Before that was the sound.
Act 1 was all about the sound.
In Ac t 2 the sound became the word.
Act 3 saw the word acquire an image.
Act 4 has not really been an act,
but an encore.
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
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So few words for such clarity. Really love this one, Dave!
Sounds like a play in the theatre of William Shakespeare and other writers of the time.
I like this. I've been playing with my own version of genesis in the latest installments of my ongoing prose thing. But it's an old obsession of mine.
Don't know that I've much to add, though.
And here I always thought perfection was in three acts!
Drat and double-drat! You've beaten me. I've had these couple of lines running around in my head for years but could never do anything with them: "In the beginning was the word / but the word didn't make any sense." I like your take.
It is, it is - after that it's all repetition!
As I like your suggested take. I've not stolen your thunder. You can't do anything with them because they don't make sense. Perhaps you could do something with that?
This needs some serious thinking about, Dave.
"The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness..."
i've read this a few times, each in a different way. I love when a poem leaves room for a reader to bring their own interpretation - and this one will leave me thinking for a few days. :)
This is great. Super writing. I like this. You bring up some deep things and get people to think about it.
...until the denouement
...until the denouement
Gotta love the encore.
Interesting, Dave, and I'm like Weaver.
Do you know the Dylan Thomas?
In The Beginning
In the beginning was the three-pointed star,
One smile of light across the empty face,
One bough of bone across the rooting air,
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun,
And, burning ciphers on the round of space,
Heaven and hell mixed as they spun.
In the beginning was the pale signature,
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile,
And after came the imprints on the water,
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon;
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail
Touched the first cloud and left a sign.
In the beginning was the mounting fire
That set alight the weathers from a spark,
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower,
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas,
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock
The secret oils that drive the grass.
In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.
In the beginning was the secret brain.
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought
Before the pitch was forking to a sun;
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve,
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light
The ribbed original of love.
In a word - brilliant!
That pleases me - I think!
I'm going to have to look that up - I have a feeling I shopuld recognise it!
Thanks for that. I agree with you about openendedness.
A little flattering, but thanks. Very much appreciated.
I too love a good encore.
I'm not doing very well this mornig - I confess I didn't know it, but many thanks for bringing it to my attention. I shall study it, you may be sure.
A generous comment, indeed. Thanks for it.
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