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Posts Tagged ‘demon’

Where Poetry Sleeps

When society aches words become the
Medicine. Aching now, as always, where
Does poetry sleep, if at all?
Lost art at the mercy of much diluted art.
The quality hidden. Spray paint over
Van Gogh, Levittowns over Gaudi’s Barcelona,
Best sellers over Yeats.

All the earth lost in the wrong kind of madness,
The impure madness, the non-thinkers madness.
Bells have never sounded for only poetry,
Maybe once. Somewhere poetry is still spoken,
Like times of revolution, covered over,
When ideas spread by the soft light of fire,
When quiet fear was quiet hope, when
Spoken words carried weight like slaves carried stone.

Sleeping verses tucked in their respective
Slumbering settings. Under dorm room beds
Next to beer bottles. On lonely shelves,
Though created, sit unread, unused, unloved lines.
Worn dusty books that creak open like old vine
Covered cellar doors after a generation has passed.
The light that wakes the earth when most are not awake,
When normal light arrives they emerge from their dream poems,
Shake them off and go about the day’s business.

The hidden word, the lost word, as if one
Is instructed to not stare into the glare of an
Angel’s wings, or into the darkness of a demon’s desire.
The past aching, the book quivering
At the trudge of history’s destruction,
At the SS boots thumping in the night to
Incinerate thought at the heart of a Nazi book burning,
Or the loss from the Chairman’s Cultural Revolution,
But poppies grew from the wreckage of No Mans Land.

Then eventually, society aching, words become
The medicine, poetry rises from the ashes
Without asking for much. Streets fill up
With goodness for awhile, then it fades
Back to the hidden state and sleeps again.
Flourish then burn, then rise and be forgotten,
So the cycle goes, so the poetry sleeps.

Kyle McHale        2012

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Dead Raven Tree

Upon a charming hill,
A dreadful tree alone,
And so well for so ill,
A place those birds have flown.

Top to ground, ground to top,
Lost old souls fill the trunk,
Where all their lives have stopped,
All their dreams, dead and sunk.

Do those birds give or take?
What darkness lost up in it?
Do they take those that are late
Or any passing of it?

All that haunts the mind and eyes
Seeps out the dreadful crust,
Keeping a dry dead sky
Keeps warmth from nature’s touch.

Beating ground lets out some air,
For all that tries to flee
The grips of claws grabbing hair,
Pulling in more mystery.

Did the reaper pass and keep you?
Where did you come from you black tree?
Why won’t God come and take you
Out of Edgar Allan Poetry?

Laugh a little, laugh a lot,
I before the devil’s arm,
Some trail I had lost,
To avoid danger’s harm

Led me to the foot of it,
That charming little hill,
Hoping that my honor’s lit
A higher power’s will.

Then out from everywhere,
Tree calling for the dead,
Yet so hard not to stare
When darkness is overhead.

That gathering above,
The terror in myself,
Shakes my thoughts up of
All I’ve ever felt.

Those ravens swarming high,
A moving halo dream,
A horrid beauty sky,
A circling raven ring.

Did the reaper pass and keep you?
Where did you come from you black tree?
Why won’t God come and take you
Out of Edgar Allan Poetry?

That dreaming flight spoke to me,
Then asked to take my soul,
To join the blackened tree,
To stay here in the cold.

I refuse! I refuse!
Why did I wander here?
A thousand birds to choose
From any type of fear

To try and take my hope.
This place unpleasantly
Takes the things I know,
Then rips them out of me,

Then holds me frozen still.
Shortening my breaths,
Feeling a demon’s will
To take all I have left.

Place me in a world of
Some life that’s glowing green,
Some place that is filled with love,
A place I find hard to dream.

Did the reaper pass and keep you?
Where did you come from you black tree?
Why won’t God come and take you
Out of Edgar Allan Poetry?

Do the ravens listen to
Their master in the dark?
What has this been coming to,
Some life falling apart?

Some empty morbid scene,
Just a tree, a hill, some birds,
And darkness whispering,
Hoping to be heard.

I hope all this passes me,
And Poe says what he means,
I hope the truth about this tree
“Is but a dream within a dream.”

Kyle McHale      2010

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