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Igniis Fatuus: Soliloquy of a Pompon

wyeth pumpkin pic

Before the angled anger of first frost
We were afraid. The pumpkin sun brittled
Its mouth – and we turned to ghosts of old men
On turtled terra firma: wrinkled up,
Our flesh, antic in imposition,
And, cap-a-pie, seeded, pulped, and thick-stemmed
As September’s Indian summer dance.
At the first heavy mention of snow
Old youthful Clotho’s faithful distaff sang….
What beauty finds thee in thy blowzy busts?
Why haunt the autumn’s ruined porticoes?
How kisses nostalgia in thy fired heads?

The wind is blue and stings October with
Solemn countenances, flickery votives.
What starry plows had plucked from the gloaming,
The sienna-studded fields reveal in shards.
No arms to sing, we could not try to reach
The next day or next week; only month’s end
Can dwell as song in vegetable souls.
We were solitary, anodyne, hollowed-out.
We drank away the sun, and brown and grey
Imbibed the deepening landscape’s early dusk.
We spoke in candles, we prayed in gold –
We loved in windows – these, the mirrors
Soon stenciled with an early winter’s ire.
Serene, enduring, hushed – we grin to bear
The foolish light that makes our faces burn.

Comments

  1. I love this.

    I love this, “Old youthful Clotho’s faithful distaff sang….”

    And this, “The sienna-studded fields reveal in shards,” is perfect. I see this on the way to work.

    AMDG

  2. The Wyeth is nice, too. I wants it.

    What, exactly, does “coming in 2013” mean? Or is that an unkind question?

    AMDG

    • As in, “Coming soon to a theater of the mind near you.”

      No, but seriously, I am doing my best to get this thing together. Other planes, though, keep taking off and landing, taking off and landing, taking off and landing…

      And so, you see, this particular plane has an endless supply of gas – er, fuel….Turning and turning in the widening gyre…

      JOB

  3. Quin Finnegan says:

    “We loved in windows” Hmmm

    • Yes, after I wrote that, something of this was rattling around in my headlike a rusty bolt in an old coffee can:

      The face in the mirror won’t stop
      The girl in the window won’t drop
      A feast of friends
      Alive she cried
      Waiting for me….OUTSIDE!

      JOB

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