Black Iris Poem by Bruce Bond
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.
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.
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.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 1:17:54 PM # 1.0.0.1119
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