Trial and Witness
A brilliance on the brim of chaos,
though not close enough to fracture the mind.
Paths of practicality I travel on to be
wholly integrated on this Earth.
Rise up to the wind, release the darts
and heavy hold holding holier than an open nut seed
deep in the ground, reviving, finding its way to the sun.
Shining ice, pulse-energy through fingers,
touching strands of the horizon. Long after
the emptiness, the temperature unbearable,
I followed your face into the smoke in front of the flame.
I couldn’t carry on or breathe, was bruised and wearied by
the motion of following and by being grateful.
My limbs were choked from the flow of their blood,
on the sofa, in the shower, unable to find a window,
view of the sky or be a witness.
Sold out to the weeping chill
close to my inner thighs, both sides
weeping disappointment’s release.
Long ago I was mixed with my
enemy’s soul. That was before
I could articulate my pastlives – the glory
of a bluejay’s high-above silhouette.
Before, when my strength saturated the couch
with visible blood-torment, when the glass doors
were always covered and shut and something was emerging
that had substance but not any moons, that
shared a rapport with the isolated prisoner, cut me like I
was an insect wing. I was an insect wing, paper-thin and
flapping, transparent, once capable of carrying a great
load, now cut and useless. I was loathing the
hot summer, hiding from the heat. I am still
dried-up marrow in a porous old bone, deprived for
years of the moisture of blanket-living-flesh. I am still weeping,
waylaid, sold, fishing in a dead zone ocean coral bed,
where not even a minnow can be found,
maneuvering through the still intact
colourful crevices, over
colourful coral mounds.
Another ugly broken shack,
in pieces by the dead grass.
Have I grown used to it yet? Dispelling
the raging urge of a spiritual quest? Have
I loosened my hold, caving in to equal amounts
of cynicism and futility, or can I still
see the open door of DNA delight, riding
the infinity spiral as it drives extinction up
and out of the grave?
By the edge is chaos’ court, carrying a fool’s tenderness.
I am not worthy of paradise.
I cannot hold out in this jungle (intact) (until) the end.
I cannot be old and on fire, sparkle with deep possibilities.
Living off salted flesh stored away from years of slaughter,
when once consuming a thriving inspiration.
Still in this treehouse of used-up language, I love you most.
In his terrible season while owning someone else’s face,
I perform my duties, collect my pie-tins,
loving you most.
Dome the day,
wrap it in a cool cloth significance
the breathing beat surrender
into clear-cutting, weed-tugging
and slippery slime swept-off veranda.
Kiss intensity into my neuron network,
override the sluggish acceptance that
rope-ties a person to a despicable fate,
pathetically hunting coins fallen from the
fat man’s purse.
I sing into a seashell. I meditate nude
on my island, undone by small talk so
not allowing room for small talk, small
thoughts or other means of house building,
or Earth-assuring stagnant aspirations.
To be free is to be ruthless, slicing off the head
of any debilitating predicament. To be free is to know
what Jesus knows – that all must be given up to follow
the way of God, to only keep what can be kept pure,
Copyright © 2015 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Random Poem Tree” February 2016
Click to access Make_the_Wind20160404Allison_Grayhurst.pdf
Click to access make_the_wind20160404allison_grayhurst.pdf
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“Grayhurst’s poetry is a translucent, ethereal dream in which words push through the fog, always searching, struggling, and reaching for the powerful soul at its heart. Her work is vibrant and shockingly original,” Beach Holme Publishers.
“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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