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#bringingbacktheglosa, Canadian poet, e.e.cummings, Elaine Stirling, glosa, medieval Spanish fixed verse, poetry
a glosa
trust your heart if the seas catch fire
live by love though the stars walk backward
losing through you what seemed myself, I find
selves unimaginably mine, beyond…
“dive for dreams”, e.e. cummings
~~~
The man with the kind smile is in the news today
for shame; I think his mother must be feeling
terrible. How hard she’s scrubbed what hangs in
public view. It’s not her laundry now, nor mine, and
yet I cannot help but cringe. This brine cooked up
by marketeers of low repute electrocutes—the wire
running through us all burns hot and white. It rips us
into trenches, splitting wrong from everybody’s right.
To him, the kind one, I offer this: while all seems dire,
trust your heart if the seas catch fire.
Let’s say, for sake of argument, that an institution
knows what’s best for you and me between the
sheets and who we call to warm them. The exit
signs are clearly marked; I know the rules,
you know who dominates, submits. Our excitation
knows no bounds…so far, so good, our sword
play’s in good fun—what’s this? You run to papa,
now? What’s changed? This wasn’t in our game!
The pain that binds us reappears, inside outward:
Live by love, though the stars walk backward.
Now we’re raining frogs and razor blades,
the “I would nevers” puffing up, their croaks
if not harmonious, at least, are sanctimonious.
Meanwhile, in stalls high up in marble halls,
stars of varying repute, nova, dark and dwarf,
fear toppling like you from their hard-won blind
heavens. What can I do to extract promises
from the many I have loved most awkwardly?
Not much. I thought I’d left you all behind.
Losing through you what seemed myself, I find
a vast, polluted land that someone promised
me, I can’t remember when or why. I have no
maps or guide. The bondage that delighted
us, our thumbing nose to pharaohs, seems,
in retrospect, like sweet repose. The failure
of success I feared most cruelly has dawned
an angry sun. What would my father say?
I made him proud and do so, still…perhaps,
these plagues I’ll weather and discover fond
selves, unimaginably mine, beyond…
~~~
I have taken some liberties with this glosa, a form that many of you may now recognize. The lines I’ve taken from e.e. cummings’ poem, “dive for dreams” are not a consecutive quatrain. I gleaned them from the larger poem in response to a current event, which, in its vividness and universality, addresses us all. Cummings, no stranger to controversy in his lifetime (1894-1962), probably wouldn’t mind.
© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image from Wikimedia Commons
Reblogged this on williamkaramk.
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This is wonderful. I think ee would approve of your liberty with his lines. We all get different news so I’m not sure who the bald guy is, though the pope leaps to mind, but I don’t know if he has a mother so that puts my deduction in doubt. Your talent for enjambment on display at its best here, carries us right along. “The pain that binds us reappears, inside outward:
Live by love, though the stars walk backward.” beautiful.
By the fourth stanza I am kinda guessing this has to do with the Israeli conflict with it seems like just about everybody on the planet except those whose way of life is propped up by sheckles. In the spirit of cummings you lead me through an experience but the conclusion remains ambiguous. Perhaps that is just do to the density of my grey matter or perhaps it is the poets intent. In any event, I enjoyed numerous readings.
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Thank you, Russel. I wasn’t going so much for ambiguity as universality. The person who inspired this poem probably is outside your radar. He’s not that much in mine either, except that the nature of events is so outrageous, I couldn’t do anything except write this glosa. I did post it somewhere that he might find it one day–or not. Doesn’t matter. Glad you enjoyed the reads.
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I too, thoroughly appreciated the enjambment throughout this one, Elaine. I found the Cummings lines you spliced were flawless arch supports for a story I dream unites with a tractable audience, an audience opened to explore sanctimony, no matter whether aimed at Papal, public or personal arenas.
One working hypothesis I’m exploring these days: whatever I most thoroughly deny in another’s behavior and repress about my own shadow is my personal portion of the world’s sickness. It’s a great flashlight to where I pose the greatest danger of provoking mayhem and doing evil deeds in the world. Yesterday this Glosa offered a a beautifully rendered puzzle piece I’ve known, but not felt in such concise eloquence:
…perhaps,
these plagues I’ll weather and discover fond
selves, unimaginably mine, beyond…
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I love your working hypothesis, Bridge. I’m working toward the same. The scenario that this glosa explores seemed to have its own event horizon. I had nightmares for two days before and one day after. I must have been one heck of a contributor to evil, and not even known. Thank goodness for poets, especially the dead ones, for their ability to pester. 😉
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