Complete, but

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Complete, but

  .

            to no avail. Sitting as a new house sits

on its lot, needing occupants.

Sewer sludge, soiled napkins, anthills

too late underfoot. Held up by restlessness in the many gardens

of Mount Sisyphus, heave-hoe to the point

of rudimentary madness. Windows I look through, birch trees

I stop at to collect nuances, rest like the sparrow in hopeful

camouflage, wearing myself down with unrealizable dreams.

If I had claimed myself a calling

as a chaplain – ritualized pacing in university halls, my arm

around youth, accompanying my affection

with a spiritual smile, then I would have

the certainty of some kind of career, not be a carved body

on fire, totem of tripwires and earthquakes.

If I was a young starling neck deep in uncut grass,

pecking at exposed roots, I would be

sky, downspout, bush, tip of a cross on a steeple,

cured of isolation, taking flight and landing when I choose and

I would choose a fenced-in backyard

where a boy’s imagination owns the splintered bench, weeds

and a dug-up secret hole. I would watch that boy plot his course

and leap, knowing no separation,

I would spread, sing

and fold.

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Copyright  © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst

BookCoverPreview (3)

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Pyrokinection”

Pyro complete but 1Pyro complete but 2

http://www.pyrokinection.com/2014/02/a-poem-by-allison-grayhurst.html

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

 

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“Allison’s poetic prose is insightful, enwrapping, illuminating and brutally truthful. It probes the nature of the human spirit, relationships, spirituality and God. It is sung as the clearest song is sung within a cathedral by choir. It is whispered as faintly as a heartbroken goodbye. It is alive with the life of a thousand birds in flight within the first glint of morning sun. It is as solemn as the sad-sung ballad of a noble death. Read at your peril. You will never look at this world in quite the same way again. Your eye will instinctively search the sky for eagles and scan the dark earth for the slightest movement of smallest ant, your heart will reach for tall mountains, bathe in the most intimate of passions and in the grain and grit of our earth. Such is Allison Grayhurst. Such is her poetry,”  Eric M. Vogt, poet and author.

“Grayhurst is a great Canadian poet. All of Allison Grayhurst’s poetry is original, sometimes startling, and more often than not, powerful. Anyone who loves modern poetry that does not follow the common path will find Grayhurst complex, insightful, and as good a poet as anyone writing in the world today. Grayhurst’s poetry volumes are highly, highly recommended,” Tom Davis, poet, novelist and educator.
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2 responses to “Complete, but

  1. One of the most magical fantasy-reality, beautiful imaginings I’ve come across in a long time – pure, innocent, dynamic, deep:

    “If I was a young starling neck deep in uncut grass,

    pecking at exposed roots, I would be

    sky, downspout, bush, tip of a cross on a steeple,

    cured of isolation, taking flight and landing when I choose and

    I would choose a fenced-in backyard

    where a boy’s imagination owns the splintered bench, weeds

    and a dug-up secret hole. I would watch that boy plot his course

    and leap, knowing no separation,

    I would spread, sing

    and fold.”

    Again, a master picture-maker … just goes to show Grayhurst’s ability to spendidly portray the easily seen and understood – even while she attempts to conjure recognition of the more subtle and complex layers of life she is usually tackling in her poems:

    “f I had claimed myself a calling

    as a chaplain – ritualized pacing in university halls, my arm

    around youth, accompanying my affection

    with a spiritual smile, then I would have

    the certainty of some kind of career…”

    .

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