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Transfigured
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Each day I wear my grief
like metal mesh. I see you
as a spirit burdened to speak.
You try to comfort this field
of wounds. You tend the amputees
and bound the screaming with soft song.
But it is hard for you to stay,
to not let go completely into the light.
I let you go. I make this year my bridge.
Though my heart has ruptured and cannot heal,
and I am forever overcome with this sadness
of our love silenced by brutal, unnamable death,
I will build a new house, dive with both hands
into my yard until the evergreens grow.
I will contain you as more than memory –
in my harvest will bloom many sunflowers
of your great generosity. And your fiery blood
will sprout the roots and flesh of passion fruit.
The maple tree will grow large like you, protecting all
within its strong and tender shadow. And children
will be drawn to this yard, to play there amongst
the tall dramatic grass, and then sit still to watch
with wonder the many shades of sky, reflecting
the warmth of your paternal sun-setting colours.
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Copyright © 2000 by Allison Grayhurst
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “Turk’s Head Review”, July 2014
http://turksheadreview.tumblr.com/post/92421950406/transfigured
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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“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.
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Reblogged this on The ObamaCrat™.
What an image, what a beauty of an image – for the power of grief after the death of one, one so desires to still be living:
“Each day I wear my grief
like metal mesh.”
And what an image for those, such as Walt Whitman, who did just this with the wounded on battlefields – beyond my capability or understanding, but not beyond my awe of admiration:
“You try to comfort this field
of wounds. You tend the amputees
and bound the screaming with soft song.”
Each line of beauty stands on its own, strong and powerful, rich and meaningful – drenched in nature’s promise:
“I will contain you as more than memory –
in my harvest will bloom many sunflowers
of your great generosity.”
“And your fiery blood
will sprout the roots and flesh of passion fruit.”
“The maple tree will grow large like you, protecting all
within its strong and tender shadow.”
I am there, in this painting of mind and feeling:
“And children
will be drawn to this yard, to play there amongst
the tall dramatic grass, and then sit still to watch
with wonder the many shades of sky, reflecting
the warmth of your paternal sun-setting colours.”