August 2010

Six Knots Tied on Pulpit Rock – Matt Kiell

SIX KNOTS TIED ON PULPIT ROCK

(A Painter Observes…Then Paints)

1) What is this isolation
That he feels? Alone
He sits upon this rock
And conducts communion
With song birds perched
On thorny branches
Singing plaintive songs
That carry past the trees.

 
2) What is this isolation
That he alone feels?
Are these clouds a portent
Predicting life’s harsh storms?

 3) What is this? Isolation,
Yes. He feels alone, abandoned
Lost on a breeze
That yet may lift him away
To a safer place.

 4) Does he question every breath,
Every motion, every thought?
Is this really isolation?
Though he feels alone, abandoned
Tossed by a breeze
That may cast him down
Onto a rocky shore,
He yet has song birds perched
On rich green branches
Singing hopeful songs
That soar beyond the trees.

 5) Are these clouds a comfort
Protection from life’s harsh rays,
From what is, from this isolation
That he feels…this abandonment?
Can song birds perched 
On deep green branches
Sing soothing songs
That might carry him away?

 
6) And what might I do for this isolation
That he feels? Alone
I sit upon this rock and
Create a cloud, a branch, a somber figure,
A rocky shore, and songbirds
That may lift him to a sweeter place.

 M. Kiell

Communion – Jan Bailey

Communion

 I am the tuck of turquoise water.
the slap of spray on ocean rocks.
I am the boat, the effort
of her engines, the voice
of the captain pointing out
the woman whipped against the cliff
by wind, her red cap.
I am the trails of bindweed
at her feet, the labyrinth of roots.
I am the wind that whips
the woman bent to her words.
I am her book of poems and it is I.
I am the pages in it, both written
and blank, the knapsack she drags
behind her like tradition,
her can of cola, her plum.
I am the doe she startles on the path,
the mud mire she skirts,
the stump she stumbles over,
her fall among the stones.
I am the blue door she opens,
the kettle she rinses,
the tea she sips to warm herself.
I am the warm.
I am the purple bruise rising
on her thigh, the salve 
she will apply at bedtime.
I am her bed with its shroud
of prickly wool, the bedsprings,
the dust that shapes them like a shadow.
I am the last word she reads
before sleeping and I am her dream
of no words, but of drifting
on a blue-green ocean until she
dissolves, then settles like lichen
along the narrow fissures of the rocks.

 Jan Bailey