Memory elides into the eyes there
(let it die) in the sloth of dreams, it is
a protest against the ice shadow
of what the fuck were we thinking under
the frail permanence of memory, this
stir dislocated into cracked lilacs red
born as species, the earth moves the rock.
The ocean shivers each broken bone, come
to the blood of desire where laughter opens in
the frightful wind in silence, a secret that is under
the haunted shores that teem with frost leaves, the
continuation through infinity, temporarily anchored in the shadow
of the tide by the surrounded white shapes of grass and ancient shelter of
black roses draped over your face, traversing the underfed yellow, this
leaf of autumn that bleeds into the deformed sky, the sun red
as we are collided into the mumbling refrain, the concentration of light upon the rock;
alive, the icy wind, the mouth of nothing bare from a lover, and
growing abandoned, we can understand how it got us here; I
look around the ocean shore in a sleep with no memory, eyes never opened, will
the hollow shiver of the sea continue to morph? I dream, and it slithers—a show
in my dreams, before a silence in the flowers promises the vision of our ghosts, you
don’t speak as we live, this synchronized muteness in a morning fog, something
in your eyes that is impossible, abstract in a pool of water different
than before beneath the ribbons of bones & sinew & flesh from
our rejoined rebellion, we are prey for the dream-light either
from the sense of sun on old stones or the virgin dark that a-gapes at your
touch–ignoring the shudder into that icy wind, the memories of your mind, a shadow
in display to escape in the existence of silence in tattered sands covering specimens at
unmourned coasts and shorelines, where hearts bleed into the dark morning;
let it die, unbridled in the pale shore, and collapse into the faintest winter striding
never-ending in the fading conveyance of motion—instinct convulses behind
in half-sleep, a silence to keep, separating where to hide; you
don’t speak as we fail to flee from the rain—it drapes over us alone, or
the water on flesh, the water on organs cleans the poison, your
eyes of dark ice go unnoticed in the return of an autumn shadow
without hope, and we are to sink into the blood of our eyelids at
the grey hours like a dream slipping away, never ours; evening
comes slowly with a new absence, convinced that moments are rising
relived, but it was never enough to satisfy; your eyes of tragedy worm to
mine shaking like a starved siege in my mind as our hands meet
I see you.
© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.
A/N: This is my attempt at the Golden Shovel poetic form where you choose a few lines from a poem, and use each word of those lines at the end. Here are the lines I used from T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland:
“There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you.”
39 responses to “Memory.”
I didn’t know what a Golden Shovel poem was. You did a great job!
“Synchronized muteness in a morning fog,” awesome line.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you so much!
LikeLike
Very interesting poetic form…I’m intrigued and may have to try this myself! Thank you!
LikeLiked by 2 people
I am so glad to hear that. It is a very intriguing form, and it is so much fun to write in.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Reblogged this on johncoyote and commented:
A amazing poem by a talented writer.
LikeLiked by 2 people
❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
A amazing epic journey in your words dear Lucy. You did a outstanding job of twisting the words to meaningful places and thoughts. I liked the honest tone and the logic of the words.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you so, so much. I really appreciate that.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You are welcome dear Lucy.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Quite a challenge. Some vivid images
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thanks!
LikeLike
Beautiful. I loved this ❤
LikeLiked by 2 people
I am so glad to hear that. Thank you so much! ❤ ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
My pleasure dear 😄 Keep writing ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
♥️
LikeLiked by 2 people
❤ ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
Interesting
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thanks.
LikeLike
Fantastic work, Lucy! So interesting and a fun read!
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you! 😀
LikeLiked by 1 person
[…] via Memory. — Lucy’s Works […]
LikeLiked by 1 person
Wow, this is so amazing! You did a fantastic job! 😄
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much! ❤ ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’re very very welcome! 💗
LikeLiked by 1 person
❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
💜💙
LikeLiked by 1 person
💙
LikeLiked by 1 person
❤ ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
[…] by Lucy’s ‘Memory.’ poem, above is an attempt at the Golden Shovel poetic form. In it, you choose an existing poem, or a […]
LikeLike
[…] by Lucy’s ‘Memory.’ poem, above is an attempt at the Golden Shovel poetic form. In it, you choose an existing poem, or a […]
LikeLike
I would never be game enough to attempt a ‘Golden Shovel’ format Lucy, for fear I wouldn’t the original Author’s lines justice…..but you’ve bravely strode into your poem with gusto and vivid imagery….. wow well done Lucy
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much!
LikeLike
Before coming to the end of your poem, I was thinking that it reminded me of T. S. Eliot, and I was right. Your poem definitely has echoes of Eliot’s “Wasteland”. Best, Kevin
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh, thank you so much. That means a lot to me to hear that. ❤️❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person
This poem had me riveted with its amazing imagery and vivid descriptions. I have never heard of this form either, but would never attempt it. Such sustained beauty in your words Lucy.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh wow, thank you so much. ❤️❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person
You are so welcome Lucy. I stand in awe of your poetry ❤️❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person
❤️❤️❤️
LikeLike