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GONGYLA POEM

 

Gongyla…so long

in winter’s pain

Paints my face with the absence

Of yours. Spring will not bloom

Till you return, for you are redder than bright

Fire and I want you to come

Back. Put on your gown

I eat your love. Weak and

Happy I would be

To see you

And though once I blamed you

Don’t hunt me don’t hurt don’t

blame me Back: strike off this debt

…So long

 

            And say again

Gongyla

spring

is too long;

as a symbol

is too obvious,

in newness too old;

 

As a flower,

as memento remaining

to pick, dismembering

each petal to preserve

a pressed / withering;

 

        And I remember

winter’s pain unabaiting

conflating rain with snow,

heat with cold, season on

season in laws cruel and ordering

of rhyme and reason.

 

Within such paradox to live

the limits producing:

this is what I must bear

though sun be soft and rain be sweet

out in the elements the fundament       

 of my rooted role so placed

to support

it all.

 

And I bare

my teeth in wind

with a quiet howl

with words or without

in gestures and songs

I knot my hands,

re-enacting gestures

of parting and departing,

sweet meeting again.

 

To them this is a song so sweet

it speaks of useful longing

to keep me in my place            

suspended, love-sick and wanting.

But how this howl sounds out

in melody transmuted

in whisper quiet

will tell instead

I will not be placated

will not settle for less

than all the world,

will not be sated

 

…too long

…Gongyla

   this spring

birthing the daily death

of what with you would move to life

the flash of insight /

unbinding care.

 

Surviving,

 

this I saw there,

impossible point to re-

collect, scattered to the four

winds and corners of the known

world. What they        

tell me 

I cannot have

which is everything and

nothing yet known

save in a flash

a kindling spark

put out

of joint.

 

No joins, rejoinder,

answered prayer:

what springs here,

nothing, no re-

plenishing water gush-

ing from earth in

spring. So instead my task

to be the mask I wear

of spring in dancing.

Such elaborate gesture, ritual

pose, as removes  too hot

from burning flame,

encodes yet burning

this needed claim.

 

To sing of what is not here.

Pain paints my face

with the absence of yours.

Spring will not rightly bloom

till you return, winters’ pain abate:

my mask is the absence your absence

paints on my face. My singing thread.

 

The absence, of what

for want of better knowing

I call by the name

Gongyla, the name in longing hope     

 of too long spring.   

 

 

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