Traces

.

Traces

 .

In the whisper of tomorrow

the wood is burning and the trees

have died. A swallow is perched

on the fence as the twilight nears.

I have taken the hinges

off the door, waiting to see what enters,

waiting as my hunger works like

midnight in my stomach, dictating

the flavour of the coming stars.

Daunted, branded by the heaving wind,

alone with my prayers and the telephone turned

up high – will the answer come before the grave

or will obscurity greet me every new dawn

like a hand unheld or a gate torn down?

It is humming, the sound of this underground sorrow.

It hums of poetry and the earth and the bug eaten leaves.

It burns and cannot bloom in bookstores, will not bloom

in the silence of a single decade or in the darkness of

a closed drawer.

Outside, the children go inside, readying for sleep.

I tread waterways in my mind

and send my kisses mid-air.

.

.

Copyright © 2002 by Allison Grayhurst

3011

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

First published in “Leaves of Ink”

Leaves of InkLeaves of Ink traces

http://www.leaves-of-ink.com/search/?q=allison+grayhurst

.

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

https://allisongrayhurst.files.wordpress.com/2012/03/traces.m4a

.

“Allison Grayhurst intertwines a potent spirituality throughout her work so that each poem is not simply a statement or observation, but a revelation that demands the reader’s personal involvement. Grayhurst’s poetic genius is profound and evident. Her voice is uniquely authentic, undeniable in its dignified vulnerability as it is in its significance,” Kyp Harness, singer/songwriter, author.

“Allison Grayhurst’s poems are like cathedrals witnessing and articulating in unflinching graphic detail the gritty angst and grief of life, while taking it to rare clarity, calm and comfort. Grayhurst’s work is haunting, majestic and cleansing, often leaving one breathless in the wake of its intelligence, hope, faith and love amidst the muck of life. Many of Allison Grayhurst’s poems are simply masterpieces. Grayhurst’s poetry is a lighthouse of intelligent honour… indeed, intelligence rips through her work like white water,” Taylor Jane Green, Registered Spiritual Psychotherapist and author.

.

.

3 responses to “Traces

  1. I often feel that your words start with a trickle and end with a down pouring, and end again with a trickle but with the sense of a “sigh” or “breath”. Reading your poems usually has this feeling of oncoming rush and then a pause…

    Like

  2. Beautiful… I especially like:
    “Outside, the children go inside, readying for sleep.

    I tread waterways in my mind

    and send my kisses mid-air.”

    Like

  3. Allison, this poem starts with a dark, dark vision that is almost frightening:
    In the whisper of tomorrow
    the wood is burning and the trees
    have died.
    You then take the hinges off the door, doors being the instruments we humans use to keep the outside away from our inner lives while allowing us to go outside.
    …waiting as my hunger works like
    midnight in my stomach, dictating
    the flavour of the coming stars.
    These are powerful lines! You are waiting to see what “outside” comes through the door, not afraid, filled with hunger, letting that hunger dictate the flavour of the coming stars.

    Then you ask a powerful question:
    …will the answer come before the grave
    or will obscurity greet me every new dawn
    like a hand unheld or a gate torn down?
    A question which probably drives all of those who become poets.

    It is humming, the sound of this underground sorrow.
    It hums of poetry and the earth and the bug eaten leaves.
    It burns and cannot bloom in bookstores, will not bloom
    in the silence of a single decade or in the darkness of
    a closed drawer.
    The craft of poetry in these lines, with the repetition of the It, is wonderful. The question, and the feared answer, humming an underground sorrow: It burns and cannot bloom in bookstores…
    (poetry, of course, not matter how great the poet, seldom does)

    But then your triumphant ending, at triumphant from where I sit:
    Outside, the children go inside, readying for sleep.
    I tread waterways in my mind
    and send my kisses mid-air.
    For in spite of the eternal question you have asked, you watch the children inside, reading for sleep, and send your kisses to them–and perhaps all of us, “mid-air.”

    The previous poem deserves comment to, but when I read this one I could not help myself. I had to comment on it. Ahh, for only more time during the day.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s