4 March 2011

Janice's Poem

When you get there, the horses of dawn
before you, the furious wheels of drawn carts,
each distance hard-won with sweated salt,
the road flat between miles, tense; only hoof
and sound of wheel loud above the air,
proof that this is not just another dream,
who can say what's best to do for our calm?
You sit like sculpted ivory among jaded colours,
something in the face you wear, hung like a mask
on walls of inner rooms, something in the sound
whose echo names you, the morning of which
rose into the gold of you, flaring nostrils
at the world. How can we say who is to blame?
Halfway into destiny, the sun lost all hope,
shone into itself across the great Smokies.
A slow descent home. The accurate death
of the first words ever spoken: let there be light.
What do we know about the meanings
of things that work against that kind of light?

2 comments:

Joseph Harker said...

Even without knowing who Janice is, or understanding some of the mysteries that are below the surface of the words, or being able to get past the rich language you build here, I will still say: three excellent questions. Especially that last one.

Rethabile said...

Thank you, Joseph. To me it is a central question. And I could go on, but you have put your finger on it. There are a lot of things I'm beginning not to understand.