A Sad Rain Song

5 June 2014

Last night I was thinking of my Rain Harp and how much I love it already, when this song—sad, perhaps—came through:

4 June 2014

3

Plangent

Countless, all the nightlong hours and waves of restless, anguished rain.
Look outside—the sky is dark, but somewhere, light will shine again
without revealing wounds and fresh new flows that will not stanch. Just stare
toward the window where the dawn will break a little bit, and glare
as if it meant to frighten you, but really, it just comes to please.
All around you, birds are waking, leaves are green on pliant trees,
and someone who arose a ghost last night will rise a vapor now,
gaze up from one bent elbow, scry in water, and withdraw a vow—
and you will hear that hissing voice as if from back of fields of grass
just slithering, and feel the fear that lets the form of true love pass
unnoticed—and that’s where it has you. That’s black magic, silent loss
that happens in a wink of time where paths that meant to never cross.
Cursed inattention, though all will was summoned and enjoined—
Now it’s over, all is lost, and he goes grey and empty-loined
toward the very grave’s edge first who reads these words and knows they’re true,
but tells himself they’re not for him. They are; he’s mine, by morning’s dew
and evening’s early starrise, unless all I’ve ever been is—dead.
Then I rose. Outside, so fair and fresh—I’d been—how long abed?

Plangent were the strings the angels played, within which voices rang.
When I wake alone again, I’ll think, I’ll hear them if I hang.

Nothing can ever, in the end, be sad for us because we know too much. When I see ahead, for myself or anyone else, I can never even tell if I am seeing us alive or dead, because the line that runs between is so thin and fragile, and we are so much stronger. The songs keep coming. As long as they do, it seems that all is well, or at least on track. That would be the track of entrainment, the process that makes all this possible.

I have to hang between the worlds to hear the sources of song. Of course sometimes I think of hanging just once more, forever.

 

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About J

Just poetry, in several forms.
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