Govinda in the mud

Posted on May 4, 2016 by Allison Grayhurst

Govinda in the mud

This line of devotion that moves

bitterly as lust tracing unresponsive thighs,

cups a poor groan of invisible blooming,

following you underneath a diseased tree,

smelling as you spread your aloofness

and mingled your affection tighter with the dealers of denial.

It came to me at first in healthy moderation,

as a permit to appease my obsession. Then it grew indecent,

flushed through me like a spell, drowning

my apprentice music with your own reclusive master-drum.

I found you in the carcass, in the millipede’s dart into the drain.

You swelled your glow across all my sunny spots, mighty,

but not brave, only bored with the circular twists

of relief, thirst and sorrow – diamond clear,

you asked for everything, wanting nothing for yourself.

I knitted together the practicalities of decomposition

to the voyage of your ever-increasing detachment,

understanding what you did not – that love

is not living alone on a dried-up hill

nor is it consuming every crumb of dream-life

until the flesh is reduced to accident.

I cannot rekindle my devotion, so I must leave you

to authenticate a future. This deed of leaving is like you like

a star – old, seen many times over by many eyes,

power with no purpose but to be bright

and desolate, eating away

waves of darkness, emptied of praise, tenderness, the bullet

needed to puncture a human heart with revelation.

I do not believe in nirvana. I do not believe in immortality:

when things change they die and do not revert.

We were, it seemed, perpetual, connected

by the red rope of my loyalty.

I am dawning. I that is I,

cracking the dome of my hereditary inertia.

I leave the shadow-guilt of solemn yearning, and also you

of coral-reef intricacy, simplicity, perfection.

I know I am alone, though permanently imprinted –

by my years of unnoticed devotion,

by the shunning of personal expectations

and by your long finger,

tanned, transcendental, a spiritual aphrodisiac still

pointing.

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First published in “Sentinel Literary Quarterly” February 2016

http://sentinelquarterly.com/2016/02/three-poems-by-allison-grayhurst/

http://sentinelquarterly.com/tag/allison-grayhurst/

Click to access 20151023No_Raft_No_Ocean_by_Allison_Grayhurst.pdf

http://scars.tv/cgi-bin/framesmain.pl?writers

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/govinda-in-the-mud.m4a?_=1

“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.

In Time

Posted on April 27, 2016 by Allison Grayhurst

In Time

The mutual condition

of our heritage. The thump-thump

in your thigh. Thin as a warrior

of Japanese fortune and eyes

rustling like wool in the wind.

At bed time, the cockroaches are my cousins

and the movement of your housecoat is my water.

I found a necklace centuries old.

You told me you were not ready

to paint the autumn gardens or do cartwheels

over a cliff. The hope that bled

from your belly, and the seas

of men’s and women’s breasts that

you floated through, like Adam awakened

from paradise, hungering for that one, strong connection,

was like me in the winters of my adolescent youth,

was the India I never visited or the Russian squares

I buried my imagination in.

I am red as cinnamon candy, hoping you’ll have me

like the first day our hands joined and the bells of trinity sang

a melody to finally, resolutely live for.

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.First published in “Poetryrepairs, # 220” January 2016

http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v16/007.html

http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v16/c01.html

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/in-time1.m4a?_=2

“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.

I can see the sun

Posted on April 15, 2016 by Allison Grayhurst

I can see the sun

but I can’t be the sun

or know the sun

in this wilderness clearing

cutting up, suctioning out my insides.

Sing alone over the wide span

of dead rolls, broken by a secret

and wounds dried up, salt hard,

hard with condensed pressure.

Creak and slide over insect glitter, sun

beams shaping the edge of the bank. I am a

fish in a polluted stream. Tires and concrete,

broken blocks blocking my way to the river.

Evolving is hard, takes time to earn a body

that can leap over high obstacles, conquer resisting currents

while starved of a clean home. It takes a fool’s joy

and an easy detachment to soar far out of the nest, lift

up and skim the skin of golden warmth. But I am a fish

meant to find shelter at the bottom bed of the ocean,

not in rivers or in streams, not leaping, but slow, slow,

surfing the cold sandy terrain,

skylight forgotten, sunlight undreamed.

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.Published in “Duane’s PoeTree ” December 2015

http://duanespoetree.blogspot.ca/2015/12/allison-grayhurst-writes.html

Click to access Make_the_Wind20160404Allison_Grayhurst.pdf

http://scars.tv/cgi-bin/framesmain.pl?writers

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/i-can-see-the-sun.m4a?_=3

“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.

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