You, there in the bright air, are you cool?
I would be, right up there
among the glass-sharp crystals
of ice and octane fuel, dust and minerals,
jet trails, comet tails and blue-white angels
of the upper air,
with earth and all its mess
far off below, its mucky pigments,
bones and hides and dung and sweat,
and self-preserving urgent flesh, invisible
to my frozen, naked eyes.
But no.
I'm still here, on the ground,
just blood-heat, thank you, midway,
contained within an ambient landscape
(grassland and some scattered trees...)
my dampened, stubby-fingered hands
filled with red ochre, and charcoal from the fire,
wondering
'What on earth shall I draw today?'
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5 comments:
Deadliness a finger-tip beyond this side of the window. So why a dreamy temptation to jump out and bustle through those essentially tangible clouds in wellies, hoping they'd respond like autumn leaves, even at the risk of betraying this self-preserving urgent flesh? - long may it remain urgent. Can't believe this was written by someone with stubby fingers.
The artist of Lascaux speaks through your poetry. What did she paint, I wonder?
:)
Here's to unfrozen eyes and hands unafraid of getting mucky!
"contained within an ambient landscape" is wonderful
And I love your ear for music.
I like this poem for its metaphysical quality. The comma after "be" in the first line is all important as it spells the beginning of a conceit about the uncool planet we inhabit and has nothing to do with wanting to be a no longer sentient body drifting through space (I think as I read this). I like the scientific accuracy of "glass-sharp crystals" and "octane fuel" - the Earth imagery of "red ochre, and charcoal from the fire" is a warming contrast to the cold upper atmosphere of the opening.
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