A Blue Grained Line

Introduction This poem is a test of your observational ability. It does not necessarily require rating or critiquing but belongs in a poetry category all by itself, not mentioned on this site. What category would it fit in and what was the inspiration for this poem? There may be a prize. One hint: I wrote it while working at the University of Toronto Bookstore in the English Literature Department. Also: it is not a run-on sentence nor is it stream of consciousness.

A BLUE GRAINED LINE

a blue-grained line circles a fragment of the mind, a dead mosquito, flattened against the door, after dark ailanthus, what makes you flower as a knight rides into the moon, a man in terror of impotence, and now outside the walls, this is how you live: a woman, children, an old pot, an old shoe and an old skin, a piece of thread ripped-out from a fierce design as solid seeming as antiquity autumn equinox autumn sequence the old times, autumn torture and a woman in the shape of a woman, walking behind grimed blinds slatted across a courtyard back there, birds and periodic blood blacked out on a wagon, part of my life cut out forever burning oneself in burning oneself out can i easily say there is a celebration in the plaza, a child with a chip of a mirror in his eye, coming by evening through the windy city completely protected on all sides where cruelty is rarely conscious the days of spring dead, dead, dead, demon lovers, did you think i was talking about my life about evenings which seem endless now and even when i thought i prayed, i was talking to myself. everywhere, snow was falling, from here on, all of us will be living frost, burning the cities ill, however legendary, hopes sparkle like water in the clear carafe and i am trying to imagine i am up at sunrise, i am walking rapidly through striations of light and dark, in my dream, children, in my imagination, insomnia, in the field the air writhes, a heat pocket in the heart of the queen anne lace, a knot of blood in the woods it is asleep in my body i trust only my existence, last night you wrote on the wall revolution is poetry, letters from the land of sinners means there is something to hold, meditations for a savage child mirror in which two are seen as one night pieces for a child now, again, the life and death talk, now, not a tear begun, now that your hopes are shamed, you stood nursing your nerves when our mother went away and father was the king out in this desert, rain of blood rape reforming the crystal riding the black express from heaven to hell so many minds in search of bodies something broken, something. the clouds are electric in this freedom of the wholly mad, their faces, safe as an interior, their life, collapsed the music of words, the mystic finishes of time, the long sunlight, lying on the sea the pact we made was an ordinary pact there were no angels, the trees inside are moving out into the forest and they say this is a womans confession this is how it feels to do something you are afraid of, to live illusion less, in the abandoned mine, to live, to lie awake trying to tell you we had to take the world as it was given, we smile, bound on the wheel of an endless conversation, whatever it was what has happened when the ice begins to shiver, when the grains of a glacier are caked in the boot cleats, you are beside me like a wall, i touch you with my fingers and, you are falling asleep i sit looking at you hiding there in your words you see a man in your dreams, you show me the poems of some woman, you are sleeping now, i cover you with my heart. WayneRay 19:26, 3 December 2007 (UTC)WayneRay

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