Treasure Island

Bruce Bond

(1954 / United States)

Black Iris


Dear guitar, my Cyclops, my raft,
my drunken casket, my doll
without arms, my willow, my ink,

what is it that dies in the grain of you,
my hollow stare at the wall of stars,
my corner, my carrel, my final word,

what nights do you consume and why,
you with your permanent o of surprise,
why cricket, why thrush, why beg

with this bowl of tainted shadow,
this cold black moon burning in its box,
why now in my mother's illness

do I think of you as a gift
floating back from the end of things,
my insensible earth, my great felled spruce,

my anxious boy looking away,
why is she everywhere you are not,
why then are you her only name.

Submitted: Saturday, July 05, 2014

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  • Tailor Bell (7/5/2014 7:02:00 AM)

    Another tremendous read. I love to ignore punctuation and read what I want into a great work...so for me this has several if not many interpretations. Aside from a resplendent dark vision with tones of shortcomings, rejection and unrealized goals, there seems to be a theme of restrained control. Excellent delivery without over-metered over-rhymed trappings. Must I go on... Bravo! -Tailor (Report) Reply

  • Sandra Feldman (7/5/2014 4:14:00 AM)

    The whole poem is outstanding, but the first stanza is pregnant with originality in the description of the guitar:
    My Cyclops, My doll without arms Fantastic! ! !
    Long live poetry, ticket to the Stars. (Report) Reply

  • Sandra Feldman (7/5/2014 4:09:00 AM)

    The Spaniard say the guitar is shaped as a woman.
    Federico Garcia Lorca and other Spanish poets have poems dedicated to the guitar.
    El Concierto de Aranjuez is a corded Lament, that cuts open the Soul.
    These all are my guesses. of why the guitar may have that effect on you. I may be totally wrong, but this poem resonated with me, I love the guitar too, the noble wood that cries. and so Spanish..... (Report) Reply

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