Dip your camel hair brush in fluorescent pools and paint this
Bloodless statue back to life NOW, cos I just can't wait any more.
Wasp-waisted moments trickle away, dribble away uselessly,
And my thaumaturgic dreams languish tardily, unavailing inside
The same kind of steel trap cage where you're confined. A new
Dawn's rays erupt behind expectant purple mountains, ruby red
And golden, and you know there's no one else I'll be beholden to.
Let's go, my love! Let's run down along the shimmering strand
And scare up the pokey sandpipers from surge-effaced sand into
Silly, gawky retreat! Wake up NOW from this Sleeping Beauty
Sluggishness; you're drugged in incubus delusions and illusory
Defeat. Take my hand and we'll claim untramped continents for
Our myriad descendants, whose own astounding dreams we may
Never guess, but they rely on our decisiveness now, so ‑‑ let's!
Dab those eyes ‑‑ this is no time for regret. We'll cast ourselves
Headlong into the rising dawn and never go back again. Come, my
Love, and free yourself from selfish cruelty's decaying tangles and
Mangled saturnine calamity: those clinging briars flourished in an
Extinct era, but we're alive and vibrant NOW; faces turned sunward
In the Eastern door. My darling, the world's young again when we're
Together, like children exhausting our hours laughing forever more.
20090719
Dawn
Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.
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"Cos I just can't wait anymore." The tone of this line is superb--it's riddled with frustration and angst.
ReplyDelete"And you know there's no one else I'll be beholden to." Well, you've gone and done it, E.B., I have a lump in my throat that won't go away--this line makes me so EMOTIONAL! You've broken my stoicism this evening :P.
And golden, and you know there's no one else I'll be beholden to.- yes, this line is so emotional and the internal rhyme is simply sublime.
ReplyDelete"faces turned sunward
In the Eastern door."- beautiful reference to the Sun's movement from East to West. The image of a rising sun springs to mind, so romantic.
I notice there is a recurring theme of one lover passionately exposing his dreams of retreat to a better, pilgrim world in your poetry, almost a fixed variant on your repertoire, something that makes you think, yup, that's the Ernest blooming and you instantly think of Wilde's 'The importance of being Ernest', somehow.
it occurs to me this could be read as a return to the garden of eden kind of thing, although it's not that; not that at all. society hangs all these heavy drapes up to conceal the candy store waiting millimeters beyond our fingertips. eden, or something like it, is within us, and paradise has nothing to do with the expectations of this bureaucratized world whose blinders bind us into cycles of consumerism and obeisance before the throne of the state without regard to its omnivorous appetites. i want to pry those binders off every pair of eyes out there, blind to breathtaking real reality as they speed to work, or return home late, too fagged out from serving the bloated termite queens to see reality even if the curtains were torn down.
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