James Greer
Dunwich Friary
Lover, was it worth the trip?
Back from green edge, brown hair
Fringed with twigs. Maybe fear of flying,
Fear of some long hurt inside,
Unfixable as dying. Not fair
These choices, never merely water,
Root, or dirt. Our God's a humble sort:
Peeks from massy cloudbanks, tree rot, —
Sea-wrack mired in tidal pools, why not? —
And over you, over me, extends a light
We cannot see by night or day.
The fire that flares within us sends
A corresponding signal: stay.
Keeps promises who steers the ship.
Back from green edge, brown hair
Fringed with twigs. Maybe fear of flying,
Fear of some long hurt inside,
Unfixable as dying. Not fair
These choices, never merely water,
Root, or dirt. Our God's a humble sort:
Peeks from massy cloudbanks, tree rot, —
Sea-wrack mired in tidal pools, why not? —
And over you, over me, extends a light
We cannot see by night or day.
The fire that flares within us sends
A corresponding signal: stay.
Keeps promises who steers the ship.
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Comments (3)
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The title suggests England. The opening uses deliberate ambiguity--the merest hints of a sexual event that went badly, as if the narrator were the proper British gentleman, discreet enough to be oblique. And yet there's a compassion lurking here. The word Friary presages a segue into a wry theology (Tree rot? --God's wot! This poet will go anywhere!).
Lovely wedding of form and sense. I note how the grim, near-sordidness of the first nine lines is writ in disjointed meter; the tenth--"And over you..." has two caesurae (the commas) that slooowww thinngggsss dowwwnnn--before the benediction of the last four lines, done in perfect iambic tetrameter.
One does justice to such poetry by reading it at least a second time, very sllooowwwlllyyy.
Hope I haven't destroyed it. In my defense, I could never stoop to writing literary criticismmmmmmBoyoboy! Let's have more from Mr. Greer.
Lovely wedding of form and sense. I note how the grim, near-sordidness of the first nine lines is writ in disjointed meter; the tenth--"And over you..." has two caesurae (the commas) that slooowww thinngggsss dowwwnnn--before the benediction of the last four lines, done in perfect iambic tetrameter.
One does justice to such poetry by reading it at least a second time, very sllooowwwlllyyy.
Hope I haven't destroyed it. In my defense, I could never stoop to writing literary criticismmmmmmBoyoboy! Let's have more from Mr. Greer.
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June 27, 2009
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I agree with you wholeheartedly R.A. I shall harass Mr. Greer for more. I have loved this poem, and held it in my possession, for something like 10 years. But I would never be able to critique it like you did. Thank you. How did you find us? Will you stay?
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June 27, 2009
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Will I stay? See my comment on your very moving welcome-to-thetruthbarrier essay. I plan on staying.
Looking down at the anti-spam exam below this window--where you have to copy character sets into a slot to prove to the bots you're human not spam (tho these days with some folks it's hard to tell the diff)--anyway it gave me an idea. Suppose some poet collected a whole lot of these character sets and turned them into poetry. Not like Burroughs' cut-ups, but based on the fact the sets often contain word fragments. For example: GULXCF WAZBRS YNPDRO. Readers would have to decipher to get the phrase, "Gulf War Syndrome." Pretty neat, no?
Looking down at the anti-spam exam below this window--where you have to copy character sets into a slot to prove to the bots you're human not spam (tho these days with some folks it's hard to tell the diff)--anyway it gave me an idea. Suppose some poet collected a whole lot of these character sets and turned them into poetry. Not like Burroughs' cut-ups, but based on the fact the sets often contain word fragments. For example: GULXCF WAZBRS YNPDRO. Readers would have to decipher to get the phrase, "Gulf War Syndrome." Pretty neat, no?
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June 28, 2009
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