Ellipses For The Newly Dead Come To Ground Poem by Warren Falcon
Ellipses For The Newly Dead Come To Ground
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An ellipsis (plural ellipses; from the Ancient Greek: ἔλλειψις, élleipsis, 'omission' or 'falling short') is a series of dots (typically three, such as "…") that usually indicates an intentional omission of a word, sentence, or whole section from a text without altering its original meaning. - from Wikipedia
Elliptical
1: of, relating to, or shaped like an ellipse
2 a: of, relating to, or marked by ellipsis or an ellipsis
b (1) : of, relating to, or marked by extreme economy of speech or writing (2) : of or relating to deliberate obscurity (as of literary or conversational style)- Merriam-Webster.com
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Inspired by Edgar Degas's painting, Singer In Green (imaged beneath the text) ,
and by shades of measure and cadence in an Allen Tate poem, just memory
echoes of music in the poem, not necessarily content though his poem's setting
is a graveyard and my poem is clearly about death, the dead, and who and what
remains of both the living and the dead.
for Mark, Toni, always for Judy Asher
...
wild sweetness is a stolen base
the tongue an untended garden
here is a burning soft hands can know
which shall finally run some headlong
for home an inherited circle at the end
latter-day glad sons gathering berries
from shadows
the newly dead come to ground
...
leap only to love
34th Street in the
alley between scrapers
toward relation jump lurch
even twist in air
happiest between world wars
most certainly born too late
would have been would be now
brief florid flame a life of art and
throwing over avoiding trench
carnage paintbrush in one hand
lover in the other all the world
a passing rage
just to be clear Miss Dickinson
rage is that thing with
colors
strokes
new uses for knives
...
jouissance is the bite
take lean brown or brawn
a love for all the above even
if once a week sneak steal
away to primed nerves drives
swell up thrust thrive then
share a meal wine again abed
to lie all Buddha smiles resting
one's head upon suspiring
chest breath sour/sweet
aftertaste afterglow bodies'
pure heart
in where/what forces
the bite
but
bite, Love,
in spite of tribal affiliation
...
Still this grief
trees just below
where I will leap
blossom brightly
as does the
sun burst from
cloud dark
such sheen on
fragile things
blossom-flung
branches ripped
to street last night
the high howl
(or
was that me)
even this urban
crawl space sheer
utter
brilliance
daresay
Beauty
such would be blasphemy
not to say it to give praise
entire body the entire
crawl space the planet
nothing but grief
grief
all grief and quandry
unanswerable quandry
...
Dear Incomprehension,
all our Sun goes nova
blossoms perform for eyes
conform trees toward affinities
for seasons
rooted they are
and remain in place
are places without
envy of motion they
even fall or parts do
which does not
surprise the sky
or dirt
all hurt seems born
to every option
seems to some how
know every plot
So let all
verb tenses confuse themselves
for seasons
the newly dead are come to ground
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Excerpt of Tate's poem to give the reader a sense of what I value most in it and in my own variant poetic du jour and mood. The Degas painting, most evocative, exquisite, feeling toned and otherly, is primary inspiration for my poem:
Row after row with strict impunity
The headstones yield their names to the element,
The wind whirrs without recollection;
In the riven troughs the splayed leaves
Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament
To the seasonal eternity of death;
Then driven by the fierce scrutiny
Of heaven to their election in the vast breath,
They sough the rumour of mortality.
Autumn is desolation in the plot
Of a thousand acres where these memories grow
From the inexhaustible bodies that are not
Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.
....Dazed by the wind, only the wind
The leaves flying, plunge
You know who have waited by the wall
The twilight certainty of an animal,
Those midnight restitutions of the blood
You know- the immitigable pines, the smoky frieze
Of the sky, the sudden call: you know the rage,
The cold pool left by the mounting flood,
Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.
You who have waited for the angry resolution
Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow,
You know the unimportant shrift of death
And praise the vision
And praise the arrogant circumstance
Of those who fall
Rank upon rank, hurried beyond decision-
Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall.
Seeing, seeing only the leaves
Flying, plunge and expire
Nicely penned the lamentation in the mould of elegy - the entire crawl space the planet nothing but grief grief all grief and quandry unanswerable /// newly dead has come to ground happiness had but now grief astound....
Such a great write, Warren... congrats for being chosen...10++++
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 2:32:56 PM # 1.0.0.1119
A poem for personal diary, hard to read for lack of punctuation. It could be made into few short poems after revisions. The poem also lacks structure and coherence, and staggers randomly and incomprehensibly.
What's the intent of yer comment? does it serve me or others or yerself? U gave opinion. So what? Feel better now 4 yer terse indication of what U value N a poem? I read yer poetry 2 see if there's anything other than conventional styles 2 learn. Not much. We both revere somesame poets; I honor that. Personal diary is N yer poems 2 that R like journalism. Reporting & flora don't make poetry. The indulgent fields of the Lord R radically open & allowing.