Deep, in a tangled wood, damp,
sodden in velvet dew and drenched, perfumed
with cedar, with pine, with fir
I have hunkered down here,
comfortable and peering out,
into the distant and clear cultivated field
with its timorous tractors trailing
droning beetle-like scrabbing and scritching
thru metal lined throats.Deeper in, one can get caught,
snared and snagged in the brackish brambles.
They clutch with needle-lined palms and
infect with greedy lassitude and
seduce you to stay, and become
part of the ever-tangle.But here, in the copse on the edge,
I am free to nudge a bit deeper
into the tangle when I am low and tremulous, and
free to step out to the clearing and
wave my red-cape soul at that android bull
and holler out…
I love to linger here,
wrapped in my blanket and
huddled down with simple things.
Crunchy yeasty baton of pungent
bread broken, and chunks of Dunbarton Blue
growling explosive bass lines of
the tangled wood’s sweat in the heat of the sun, and
simple thick garlic sausage, hard and chewy
Day passes, and I sip strong dark roasted coffee soused with cream
and peaty scotch, and let its tides stir me, calm me, open me…
And I hear the throaty gurgle of the deep tangle calling,
and I hear the scuttling hurly-burly stylings of distant throngs…
and the birds, surfing that in-between gulf, smudging that line,
that threshold with magic singing seamlessly weaving
a spell of sound, of longing, of contentment…and wistful peace.And I wonder at what I hear.
I wonder how long the oaks have sat,
humming oaky thoughts that transcend
the transient Kingdom of human history?
I wonder if the Oaks sang the vines awake,
or did the Vines, pregnant with fecund waking
sap and summer, thrust up and reach with their
familiar and low-rhythmic song to wake oaks and
taunt the tangle with merry fingers waggling
and grateful and greedy and hungry
Later, in the early soft gloaming I rise from my
den of antiquity and ancient comforts.
The tangle, the clearing, the fields and fowls
… and the vines…
have pierced me, are in me,
have made me one of them now,
one with them, and I amble home
full of many paths and peace.
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I love this one. ❤️
Hey Hiii Rache! ❤
Jus for you…a lil clue…this poem is about that transition that I mention on the "About" page of Grace Notes…it can be transitioning from death to life…from works to grace…my gender transition…from chains to liberty…that is the copse, and well, the rest is self evident, or if not it can be read into subjectively and the glory of the poem can be completed in the reader's heart.
Guessing you already sussed that out tho, LOL!! ❤
But it’s still wonderful to hear the author explain the layers of meaning. That’s one of the best things about poetry. That it could touch me in another way entirely then another. ❤️ I love art.
Wonderful sense of building harmony in this. Reminds me of Wordsworth in its developing communion with an initially ambiguous spirit of nature, though I doubt the tractors would have been there in his time…