Dirty Gerty's Hurdy Gurdy


Only the poem knows what's true

Monday, January 10, 2011


Dear readers,

Do forgive my lapse as of late. I've been feeling quite horrid. And, I can feel a pain, physical, now, that seems to be worsening. I am seeing a doctor today, fortunately, though it's not one of my specialists, more a GP Fellow. I am worried I'll end up in the ER or hospital, hopeful, though, I can breathe through this.

So, before I pursue today, I'd prefer sharing a poem I wrote in an hour during the AM yesterday. It's page 53 of my book of poems, Persephone. And, it pertains to my father, is actually a dedication, though, it also signifies the immense love he had for my mother before he passed (away). It's called Rhadamanthys because in Greek mythology R was a judge of the under or "ether" world. In this poem, my speaker wants to go with the heroes to Elysian fields, but wants to take his love, who hasn't yet passed, with him. It plays on the concepts of "we" being the judge of "our" souls. Which is why I called it Rhadamanthys. In many ways, my speaker embodies Rhadamanthys...

I hope you don't abhor it. Again, do forgive my absence. I've been in SUCH a precarious state:

When the Lark leaves, and day, and night
Are ushered by the stars, and their decayed light
Ushers asphodel up aisles of white roses,
Not meant to be colored by Aphrodite’s blood,
The love and yearning of its embrace
Put to the cask to Death’s blank face,
There is nothing to dreams, no place
For anything, but the shadow of your Grace,
And Love. Your eyes, broken chrysanthemums
Of yellow, the poise to which I follow
Soul, to its deep and broken Day,
There is no will or way, to my dismay,
At knowing I go without, you, saffron Soul.
I will alone the movement willing me,
Up a black river, the water I will not drink
For fear every scent from your golden bloom
Will be lost, and the touches of rosebay
Urging me to their embrace, will take the place
OF my empty tomb, and make of it something new.
A doll you can primp and groom,
A scarecrow, with beaded eyes and a sown red smile,
When I’d much rather be stone,
A monument of black, that grief will give rain,
And wind will give shape, shaped in the loam
Of your golden shadow. It may be I’ll wear away,
And somewhere else, wear the Elysian garland
Of which we always dreamed we’d both wear,
Some time after the death of day and night.
But I cannot go, as I go, and am willed,
But give you something, of me. My light,
Take my garland of thorns, from which laurels will bud
And in their birth rage in oceanic waves, and waves of sound.
To all the waves that make up everything, and give nothing,
I give you. And I am judge, and I am victor,
And I will wear the perfect garland, to match your laurels,
And wait for you, in Elysian fields, just not, as you think,
With Paris and Hector and Achilles and all the kings.
But a mile beyond its gates, before reed lined honey lakes
And the honeyed sun smiles, on everyone.
I’ll be the one on the edge of dark, straw, and pinned to
Golden wheat, scaring away all the larks who here
Are like crows, feasting on the rancid meat of life.
For I cannot measure eternity, until your yellow eyes
Open and shine, from the dream and wake of life and death,
And take me baiting, with their fading breath.