Friday, January 28, 2011

Daily Write Part 5

Gunn and I have decided to post our daily, 15 minute freewrites for five days. This one is a review of some pipe tobacco, Hearth & Home's Anniversary Kake. The core of it, the idea for it was flushed out in those first 15 minutes, then I spent an hour or so on it. So this very much is rough. This also counts as my sixth and final necessary Tobacco Poem. Thanks for reading.


Around the edges of the glade nude
nymphs dance, show no shame –
there are none now to watch them
perform the old pieces again and again.

An exposed rock, low to the turf,
the outside dark, deep, aged,
pitted and pocked and potent,
overpowers the center,
controls the shape of whirling women,
their hair flung forth to lift in the wind
of their own making – the still stone
squats silent in their close tussle.

These two forces – the feminine
dancing figures who know what they do
and the terrible tip of the outcrop,
tiny in relation to bedrock below,
but filling the glade, giving shape, giving order
giving stage to the performers –
the power and pleasure of the forest
the flight and the fight of flesh.

But creepingly another comes,
pierces crenellation shrubs, perceives
and, arrested, allured, alarmed,
cranes neck back and dextrously side
to see the pale hides of these hidden women,
their blinding skin more splendid against
the bold black backdrop of Precambrian rock
than they ever could be couched safely on any cushion.


The wanderer A said...

To and fro the women sway
Back and forth they swing away
Rhythm not lost by the nights quiet
Broken ere by feet stamping in riot
And raising of ecstasies cry

Under pale moonlight striking skin
Hides the man to watch the sin
Utter disregard, temperance put aside
Mans spirit forgotten if e’en for the nigh’
Experience out of body, as if from different eye.

Bent, huddled, squatting thus
Male steals a glimpse in his lust
Hiding behind the branch of bush
The dancing continues under leaves lush
Oh, cowardly man, he dare not to stand

One false move, one wrong breath
Discovery known, secrecy bereft
Sparkle of eyes, moonlight the Brutus
Spotted, again sin has deceived us
Dragged, scratched, beaten and battered

The dance’s rhythm has taken a different tune
Awful moons red chagrin sneering on the buffoon
A warning lyric for the ear to hear
Of the man who came to near!

Your poem reminded me of the dyonisian (sp?) women who went and danced in the woods and sacrificed men. Thought I might try adding some finishing lines, hope you dont mind.

Anonymous the Younger said...

Good point man! Actually quite apt because I have become addicted to this Tobacco. I have like 2.5-3 ounces left, but I am still thinking to myself, in a month or two, I might be out. Sigh. These women, and this rock, have torn me to pieces.