Till then I see what’s really always there.” - Philip Larkin
Along the woodpile you see a sign of demise,
a few feathers, snuff-colored and thin.
Then, aside your brown boot, the source--
a swallow down, the puffed pulp of its breast
heaving final rhythms. Standing there, you
wait. For what? Sun begins its December descent,
spills gauzed yellow on the broken leaves below.
In time, the swallow stops, and you go.
Returning to your tiny room, you read the messages always there:
fissures walls conceal the dusted spiral
of a lost snake; the handle of a white teacup just below
the stove—things gone missing and forgotten carry on in their
diminished states. You weigh them, knowing now
that in the morning you will return to the woodpile.
There you will watch again for the slow finishing—
the dirt beginning its ceaseless envelop,
gathering feather, bone, and wing into its thirsty .
Gone with a trace:
the folded swallow is the sign—the leaves below, the signified.
gathering feather, bone, and wing into its thirsty .
Gone with a trace:
the folded swallow is the sign—the leaves below, the signified.
Along the Woodpile You Spot a Trail of Demise
(Version II with alternate ending)
“In time the curtain edges will grow light.
(Version II with alternate ending)
“In time the curtain edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there.” - Philip Larkin
Along the woodpile you spot a trail of demise:
A few feathers, snuff-colored and thin.
Then, aside your brown boot, the source:
a swallow down, the puffed pulp of its breast
heaving final rhythms. Standing there, you
wait. For what? The sun begins its December decent,
spills gauzed yellow on the broken leaves below.
In time, the swallow stops, and you go.
Returning to your tiny room, you read messages you find there:
fissures in the walls conceal the dusted spiral
of your lost snake; the handle of a white teacup just below
the stove—things gone missing and forgotten carry on in their
diminished states. You weigh them, knowing now
that in the morning you will return to the woodpile
where you will wait again for the slow finishing—
the dirt beginning its ceaseless envelop,
gathering feather, bone and wing into its thirsty coil.
Watching, waiting, you read the cruelest of human
knowings from the velvet-trimmed pulpit in your mind:
the folded swallow is the sign—the leaves below, the signified.
4 comments:
hmmmm...
I like the second a little more... though both carry much the same thing... perhaps it's my affinity for Barthes and semiotics...
those things that return to earth are part of a cycle... one with no end...
the flower withers
the seed remains
Oooh, very nice. I think I like the additional lines in the end of the second version a bit better. Beautiful, both of them.
Very nice. I prefer the first version. Version two resolves in a manner that seems to me didactic and is a bit tedious for my tastes. To explicitly introduce the human element with the judgmental words/phrases "cruelest" and "velvet-trimmed pulpit" starts to edge into a kind of preachy self-consciousness that I suspect was better hinted at and perfectly implicit in version one. That being said, I love the last line of version two and wonder if you could work that into version one. Maybe just tack it on and see. Of course, what do I know?
Thanks to all of you for the comments.
Gerry, you hit upon exactly what I have been struggling with in this poem. I do like the last line, but the I don't like the "human element." I am going to tinker and see if I can have the last line work in the first version.
Thanks again.
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