The Cleaving
Posted: Sat Dec 13, 2014 11:50 am
I have just read David's amaazing poem 'Darken The Night' and the subsequent comments on poem suitability for our Bush Poetry written competitions, which got me thinking about a poem of mine. It's certainly not the calibre of David's poem, but nonetheless seems to have repeatedly had the most underwhelming response in competitions. Well...no response actually. It is a type of 'lost love' poem that hints at unacceptable behaviour that can cause relationships to fail. Perhaps it's too vague...or perceived as too 'personal'? Given that it seems to be destined to never succeed in a comp I share it here in the interests of further discussion, regarding just what will, & will not be seen as 'acceptable' for our competitions.
‘The Cleaving’ Glenny Palmer © 2009
When the haunting mist of the dawning trysts
with the phantom forest nigh,
while the creatures sleep in a secret keep
ere the dreaming sun creeps high,
and the subtle blush from the artist’s brush
spreads a flush of pink on the rye,
will your thoughts bestir, will resolve defer,
will you think of her…and sigh.
When you hike the fell in your flight from hell
and you fight the swelling cry
of a martyred heart in a world apart
from the ardent days gone by,
while the blackbird sings to your broken wings
til it rings in your soul to fly,
will you heed the call, will you breach the fall
or remember her…and sigh.
Where the river wends through the shivered bends
in the snow kissed glens of Skye,
where the naked trees form a sacred frieze
to appease your grieving eye,
is there no release in your quest for peace
does your feeble heart mollify
a defeated love; like a frightened dove
will you flail or will you fly.
When your thoughts rebound to the sunbaked ground
where the bounding roos pass by,
and her flaming hair like the blazing air
was a beacon to imply
there a passion burned that would ne’er return
once decreed to wilt and to die,
do you wonder yet, do you nurse regret
or in dreaming question, ‘Why?’
For the day must come when a man can’t run
from his demon’s evil lie,
when the veil must lift from a conscious shift,
bid his reason rectify
the defective course with select remorse,
his compassion grow, multiply,
ere he greets his tomb in eternal doom
for a creed he’d justify.
While the Wattles bloom under southern moon
in the womb of southern sky,
and the northern snow in the dawning glow
is a morning lullaby,
do you think anew of the inner you
does the bond still cling, mystify,
how a wild haired girl with a flaming curl
will remember you…and cry.
‘The Cleaving’ Glenny Palmer © 2009
When the haunting mist of the dawning trysts
with the phantom forest nigh,
while the creatures sleep in a secret keep
ere the dreaming sun creeps high,
and the subtle blush from the artist’s brush
spreads a flush of pink on the rye,
will your thoughts bestir, will resolve defer,
will you think of her…and sigh.
When you hike the fell in your flight from hell
and you fight the swelling cry
of a martyred heart in a world apart
from the ardent days gone by,
while the blackbird sings to your broken wings
til it rings in your soul to fly,
will you heed the call, will you breach the fall
or remember her…and sigh.
Where the river wends through the shivered bends
in the snow kissed glens of Skye,
where the naked trees form a sacred frieze
to appease your grieving eye,
is there no release in your quest for peace
does your feeble heart mollify
a defeated love; like a frightened dove
will you flail or will you fly.
When your thoughts rebound to the sunbaked ground
where the bounding roos pass by,
and her flaming hair like the blazing air
was a beacon to imply
there a passion burned that would ne’er return
once decreed to wilt and to die,
do you wonder yet, do you nurse regret
or in dreaming question, ‘Why?’
For the day must come when a man can’t run
from his demon’s evil lie,
when the veil must lift from a conscious shift,
bid his reason rectify
the defective course with select remorse,
his compassion grow, multiply,
ere he greets his tomb in eternal doom
for a creed he’d justify.
While the Wattles bloom under southern moon
in the womb of southern sky,
and the northern snow in the dawning glow
is a morning lullaby,
do you think anew of the inner you
does the bond still cling, mystify,
how a wild haired girl with a flaming curl
will remember you…and cry.
I doubt it would do any good in bush world competitions, the rules being such as they are. But does it really matter? There is life outside bushworld. It's a lovely poem, it's yours, it means something to you, and don't change the title for quids. I often find the title is one of the hardest thing to think of.