In their dying
in their shadows
I will see your eyes.
As the blood-flow
of living things,
dear white shells and white bone
fall into the ground,
mama’s bony fingers
whiten the earth,
where all else fades and leaves; daddy glissades in the ice
picking flowers for us all, and soon they fade
and all summer
death around ankles
they are fish in the sea;
reminiscent of dissociation
of the sea,
the twisted dawn blinds the dark tree,
over the hymns
the excessive slice
by the autumnal strings,
and cow bones; death in different songs,
such as mine,
and redden rots in the ground,
the stones are pale without the sun
is my own,
your eyes are not mine
writhed in the tulips,
and their freedom
to the early sea.
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This poem, at least by stanzas five to the end, was inspired by Sketches of Spain by Buckethead. I never generally divulge the meaning of my poetry, but I feel compelled to with this little piece–rather, a strange feeling I admit. From the instrumental, it brought me evocations of grief, of loss. I also thought briefly back to the opera by Henry Purcell, Dido’s Lament, where that alone was about grief and remembering one as they are before death and not their fate to be.
From stanzas five to the end, I explicate these feelings of connection and disconnection to the concept of death among us as living things. Flowers eventually wither and die once picked off the bush; I remember a pink carnation I picked for my mother as a child if I recall correctly. The flower died days later.
Memories alone are concepts, fragments of inspiration for me. I delve into the nature of ourselves, the antithetical layers we have of one another. We make or forge our own path, so we go this way, our own way.
Like in Dido’s Lament, remember me as I was, not my fate to be. I hope that was one of the themes I could communicate in this poem.
I dearly hope you enjoyed the read. Thank you.