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I hope several of you will give me your take on this one...
July 19, 2014
12:22 am
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I have a specific concern about the nerdiness of this poem. Please give it a read and let me know if you think it is accessible beyond it's literary and vague film and music references. I read it, and I just can't wrap my head around whether or not it has any poetic value without knowing all the background. It took me HOURS to write. Pleasurable hours, but hours all the same. This one feels like a big investment, so any comments you have will be greatly appreciated.

Thanks Thoughtsies! (yup, you are on Thoughts, Inc. you're a Thoughtsie)

 

Angel Condition

 

She sways in grace, a blushing apple dangling by a stem

just beyond my eternity. I want to ask of it, why now, in this present?

The human past stands as still as the Berliner Dom, existent and invisible,

as invisible as I am. My wings fold inward in empathy, as witness to my witnessing.

Her mortality satisfies her longing—

to embrace time, to touch tangibility, to lose what’s worth having.

I subsist only in her binaries.

     “This desire to possess her is a wound

     And it's naggin' at me like a shrew

     But, I know, that to possess her

     Is, therefore, not to desire her”[i]

I am home only in our unity, the mist between existing and existence.

Some find my place a privilege, one of no attachment, I only observe.

While her stomach hungers, I am both hollow and full.

When sleep heavies her head, I am neither tired nor awake.

While she speaks, I am soundless.

Oh Marion. Oh Rilke, who has doomed me into eternal listening,

to want, to want beyond wanting, what no angel knows.

     “Voices. voices. Listen, my heart, as only

      saints have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them

     off the ground: yet they kept on, impossibly,

      kneeling and didn’t notice at all:

     so complete was their listening.”[ii]

If she knew of me, my statelessness, my objectless love, she would be terrified.

My not-life, my not-death—she would never understand.

She moves within her own subjectivity, her art, her visions,

her waking memories. She holds a handful of earth,

she must say it to understand it, “earth,” she says. “Cathedral,” she says.

“Apple tree, garden, river, doorway” she says, “prayer.”

The meaning, like me, is invisible.

     “She's wearing them bloo-stockens, I bet!

     And standin' like this with my ear to the ceiling

     Listen, I know it must sound absurd

     but I can hear the most melancholy sound I ever heard

     Walk n' cry, walk n' cry

     Kneel n' cry, kneel n' cry”i

I am a mere abstraction in this angel condition, a reflection

of the daylight’s star, of the moon set hours before, an unspoken antiquity.

She is sublime. Her tongue against her teeth, her mouth the shape of verses

clings to worldliness, to my otherness, to all that is my longing.

She sways in grace, a bridge in the mist. “The River Spree,” she says.

“There’s no greater story than ours,” she says.

My wings have fallen with leaden desire.

     “But to say them, you must understand,

     oh to say them more intensely than the Things themselves

     ever dreamed of existing.”[iii]

Marion, you have made me known.

 

[i] “From Her to Eternity.” Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds as preformed in Wings of Desire, a film by Wim Wenders and Peter Handke.

[ii] Rilke, Rainer Maria. “The First Elegy.” The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. Trans. and ed. Stephen Mitchell. New York: Random House, 1982. Print.

[iii] Rilke, Rainer Maria. “The Ninth Elegy.” The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke. Trans. and ed. Stephen Mitchell. New York: Random House, 1982. Print.

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
July 23, 2014
3:24 pm
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some good lines.  I enjoyed: 

My wings fold inward in empathy, as witness to my witnessing.

I subsist only in her binaries

I don't understand 'the mist that stands between existing and existence'. To me existing is existence and there is no between between the two.  But I don't understand zero either.

Thanks for the effort.

July 24, 2014
2:20 pm
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Thanks for your comments @aziz ... very helpful! I am going to work on that mist and existence line as well as some other stuff.

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
August 15, 2014
12:26 am
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I can't write it on the bathroom wall so its way beyond my ability to reply which also tells me its good.....

To want beyond wanting what no Angel knows.

That thought alone could bring about a great poem.

A subject that would appeal to any reader; Desire.

The following users say thank you to Forgewright for this useful post:

tlhopkinson
I am a man with one distinguishing manner. I view life as a nonstop roll by circus. Whatever my senses signal to my brain, it is received as humor.
August 15, 2014
4:11 pm
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Killer was here!

Semper Fi

Those individuals who deem themselves perfect barely scratch an elbow in their fall from grace. Wm Steele
August 16, 2014
9:43 am
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I think what you guys are saying in those responses is that my hunch was right LOL

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

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