The Illustrated Mother

An apricot smear curling a line
down the sides of an arrangement
of her wings tucked beneath her thighs.
Her eye, lithographed in assent to the sky,
peers past and through
the light printed in pine and jonquil.

She will singe if I don’t care about
my grip. The venetian gilt cuts through
the card and glistens in filigree.
Certainty is in her recurrence, 
always with the learned in their robes
following, pertinent as an unmanned belfry.

In the foreground under the pears,
she loosens her sleeves to release
verses of prodigy onto the horizons
secured with the anchor in the Latin cross
illuminating east and hope in the court
yards described in one hundred pages.

Listening is lightning, splitting the creases
where relics hide and lose themselves
to calliopes amplifying avalanched will.
The honed and worn edges of her hands
stay tucked in her folds, out of reach
of the histories in our pocket.

Love the title, and from it I was expecting a more approachable poem, more personal.

Somebody looks damn good in their robe, best as this hillbilly can tell.

Please correct me, line by line, if I'm wrong.

Not sure about belfry.

Thank you for the poem. Lovely.

Thank you for the comments. They are more valuable than you know.

The weakness of explanation is the wondering of why I didn’t say that in the first place. However, language changes as we read and changes the writing as the saying feels too much like directing the reader onto a worn path, as speech presumes the passivity of the listener. The poem seems a way to breathe into the spaces, the possibilities. None the less, accessibility is an issue and points to Pound’s comment that poetry ought to be at least as well written as prose. After stumbling through some of the Cantos, I am no longer sure what prose is. The dilemma is the poet’s intention of expressing the inexpressible, as Neruda says,

all night long they struggle,
nobody knows the weight
of the harsh clarity that will go on opening
like a languid fruit.

The initial trigger for the Illustrated Mother was a holy card, a Catholic artifact of remembrance to mark events such as births, deaths or confirmations. The cards are illustrated with depictions of saints, Christ, and in this case, Mary. The poem attempts to illumine the image underneath and floating above the illustration. The depiction is tangible, its signification is not. Not that different than the word ‘air’. The card is grounded by ‘lithographed’, ‘card’, ‘printed’, then loosed from her sleeves, etc. While we picture what can’t be pictured, we perhaps are moved more through listening than seeing. That which lurks in its murkiness needs carving into clarity and presently I lack the discipline. Revision is never done.

Let us try another read
reshuffling the discard,
For the read is immersion
with your clothes on the shore.
Writing is just stream,
a narrowing, a setting of rocks
in the sluicing current,
spilling perhaps an opening calm.
Reading is to swim
a perilous squirm
for the moment spawned
in the still of an unwrapped weave.

larry

Well see, now I feel badly, having said that the Mother of Jesus looked sexy in her robe.  Actually, I did suspect a holy depiction, being very familiar with the cards of which you speak. Sadly, when I don't get something I like to say something funny. You must pardon me for that.

By the way, the ditty you closed with is as smooth as a river pebble.

I not as much set rocks along
shores as  build against what comes.
In my mind a million half starved
Chinamen are rushing to build a damn.
It is an elaborate wall, but not one
of the little workers can make out
what the architect meant. Readers
are being told that anything down
stream of shiny metaphors will perish
with the temples and the ants. They
gather what reminds them of their
own and move to higher ground.

Stanza three shines here brighter than the others I think (maybe "prodigal verses into horizons" tho as an alternative?  as it is it's a mouthful, much like the third line of the final stanza, which gets too think on the tongue, I think).  "Listening is lightning" is so great, I feel that it loses intensity as the last stanza moves along.  I'd lighten the linguistic load.

The first false step is the very beginning--I'm not sure how helpful the possible confusion b/t an apricot jam drop (which was my first inclination) and an apricot-colored ink is.  I can not wait to see what you do with this poem--maybe post a next version??

Question, Larry, do you mean you don't do revisions, or what?

HG

HG. No, revision is constant, continual as I am sure it is with everyone else.

Eric, excellent notes. I think the end is almost cliched. The image of avalanched will is beginning to irritate me also. The beginning may sound derivative from the poetry supermarket, though I kind of like it. (yeah, I cry at movies too.)
I'll wake it up and prod it after a proper rest.

The discussion here is very interesting.  The poem itself is remarkable.

Rick

And is it time?  Has this one had a proper rest?  Yes, the commentary throughout on this is great, a learning tool for me.  Thanks, Rick, for bring it back around