from A Season
For weeks the same mysterious sadness. Not every day, but all around.Of being taken to the hospital alive.Of speaking so softly as to rarely be heard.
A leaking voice, an hourAs brutally compelling as A house fire or A tsunami rolling slowly into shore.
That is how the day begins With an impression as bad as the sea. And the sounds the walls feel, soundsMore openly yourself than any
Person scattered In sudden bloom. But then very suddenly you sleep. You are in a clearing, time
Comes flush with the dimples you’ve carvedIn your composite path. And in this richest of soils unwinding suddenly Back into sleep you dream
A cognitive music Flares up at intervals, You dreamThe way teeth dream and stones
Of the particular forces from which you are made.Then of the people you loveAnd have forgotten but will remember,And then of the floodgates opening
In your mind’s mouth:Of wires in bruised orbit, Of rosesAnd a room to receive them, the dream
Bestowing its powers and shapingLike a snake the swallowed world.
*What word is there for that. What wonder clear as this.To be woundable finally decayed Into the literature of all soils.
To remember next the rain, the houses The character of The morning seeming closerIn a language you don’t know
While the water runs Red its slow passageIn the bowels of feeling with every burst Feeling more and more
Some shadow, semi-snow—And behind me What I meant to expressIn the arms of the promised rain,
That things return, the same, that thatThat we have always remained With eyes, and mouth and hands,Is the thought that thought would believe—
Mouthing no and frightened yet still Under shadow,Is the shock of a perfect heartbeat bearing down.
*But how did you do it At night tied down astonished And let the surf exhale on your face.A mess of stars a breath of vast rushed love.
And all your historySlumped weirdly between brain and heart. February andCowardice the purple watched suspension
Of a sunset that lasts for hours.In mythic distance. In a mouth of needles.The fruit glowing blue against what
Substance, the correlate of leaves.In the window the electric air Extracting value from its first pressing.And then I said to myself, I thought
Having touched a great evilHaving passed over a tangle of sweetgrass, I wondered And ran on having in turn been made happy
Above the action still floating In cold weird beauty the blue autumn light—
And at what immaculate oddsHaving primed the mind for a world In process incompletely alive
But also childlike, gentle, sweet Through the first real stirrings of rain In sprung life my absence roaring upInto a halo a throat of gauze.
And this to let the walls be walls, at the edges Wounded slightly made productively sad.And the flowers too, screaming Into steel-blue gradients
Is a job you have to do, Its bad implied permissionAt the edge a still creature nesting in empty space— Feeling wrong, enlivened,
Feeling itself the subject of a wire- Like surface—A thinged prose, Its mouth and eyes—And at what immaculate odds.
Copyright © 2018 by Michael Joseph Walsh
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission
DREGINALD is an online literary magazine seeking to publish excellent writing. DREGINALD is not particular when it comes to form/genre because DREGINALD cares only about excellence. You send your most excellent work and DREGINALD says either “no thanks” or “give me that.” DREGINALD is not scared. Try us. We’re ready. DREGINALD yes! DREGINALD no! DREGINALD yes! yes!