September 28, 2009

Homestead

Every so often I stumble across something that intersects with something I've written long ago. Case in point, photographer Kate Peters' 'home' and a long forgotten poem from 1992:

desertedhomekatepeters.jpg

Homestead

It was found in the fog that shivered
        the slivers of glass in the windows.
It was seen in the sheen of the moon
         on the unworn wood of the floor.
It spoke with the slow, patient clutching of light
         and tapped out the unknown codes of the flesh,
         the indistinct worm of the years and the shapes
         of desire, possession, and fate.
It was mute.

It was stitched in the spaces
         of the wind's alphabet.
It was clothed in cool hands
         gloved in wet weather.
It appeared on the paths
         that admitted no passage.
It's rachety rhythms
         were all made of match sticks.
It waited.

It's slashings were tattooed
         on drapes of dank velvet.
It's gibbering laughter inserted itself
         between doorway and jamb and continued to carve.
It's snickering plumbing
         rotted the dinner.
They had left, they had left.
         Indeed, they had left.
Of that all their objects would clearly attest.

Posted by Vanderleun at September 28, 2009 12:50 PM
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"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.

The picture and the poem are made for each other!

I especially like

"It was stitched in the spaces
of the wind's alphabet.'

Because it makes me think of someone slowly, repetitively cross-stitching a sampler, the way the wind will swirl around in the same pattern around a building.

Empty houses are so full of stories waiting to be heard.

Posted by: retriever at September 28, 2009 5:07 PM

Oh, I did enjoy your poem.

Years ago I, too, wrote a 3 stanza poem about a vacant house . . yours is more elegant and fearsome. This line about encroaching wildness:

. . It appeared on the paths
that admitted no passage. . .

My try at addressing human efforts succumbing - tips toward the mawkish . . still,I like it.


Pressed around its sagging walls
the flowers bow their heads.
Peony blush and lily white
give way to bramble reds.

Posted by: Cathy at September 30, 2009 9:55 AM
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