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www.poetrysoup.com - Create a card from your words, quote, or poetry
The Four Seasons
I
ICICLES fall from trees, molten with age,
without memory - they stand aloof in their
nakedness - they limber;
like the gods terrified into silence,
like tall brooding deities looming out of the
fog:

The forest hugs them
carves them into stones,
Etches them into the slow
eastern landscape: rivers, hills
the slow running water,
times broken inscapes…

The willows are burdened with ice
the white shrouds of burial spread
upon the earth's ravaged face; the eyes
unseeing, the mouth unspeaking,
a gust of wind proclaims the anger of
immemorial ages; the cycle, the
eternal ritual of mystical returns -

The cypress - whitening -
boneless; wearing her best habit,
a pale green in the forest of ghosts -

And so I walk through this windless night
through the narrow imponderable road
through the silence - the silence of trees -

I hear not even the gust of wind
I hear only the quiet earth, thawing underneath;
I hear the slow silent death of winter -

where the sun is yellowest.

But above, Monadnock looms
like some angry Moloch, her
white nipple seizing the space

drained of all milk.
.
.


A she-devil beckoning to worshippers
seductive - her arm stretching outwards -
to this lonely pilgrim
lost in the mist:

Behold the school of wild bucks
Behold the meeting of incarnate
spirits -
Behold the lost souls bearing tapers
in rags of rich damask,
Down Thomas - the saint of
unbelievers - down the road to bliss
Down to the red house, uncertain
like a beggar's bowl hanging unto the cliff
of withdrawn pledges, where the well is
deepest.
.
.


I have dared to live
beneath the great untamed.


To every good, to every
flicker of stars along the pine
shadows;
To every tussle with lucid dusk,
To every moonlit pledge, to
every turn made to outleap
silvery pollen,

I have desired to listen - to listen -
to the ripening of seasons.
.
.
.


Winter 2001
This is ONE of a continuing sequence.
Written by: Obi Nwakanma