In flood the creek is still a walk over.
A listless washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
or delta of anything at all.
The opaque water meanders
through sunken banks
then after a few miles, seeps into a
wallow of bottomland.
It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
built beside its muddy channel
has named it ‘Silver Water Creek’.
What’s left of Silver Water Creek
scrawls an epilogue in the mud.
A leaf beached on a pebble
mimics a lilliputian wreck,
and that is where
imagination tragically drowns.
Aeneid Book 6: The Descent into the Underworld
by Virgil
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Sibyl began to speak to Aeneas:
“God-blooded Trojan, son of Anchises,
descending into the Underworld’s easy
since Death’s dark door stands eternally unbarred.
But to retrace one’s steps and return to the surface:
that’s the conundrum, that’s the catch!
Godsons have done it, the chosen few
whom welcoming Jupiter favored
and whose virtue merited heaven.
However, even the Blessed find headway’s hard:
immense woods barricade boggy bottomland
where the Cocytus glides with its dark coils.
But if you insist on ferrying the Styx twice
and twice traversing Tartarus,
if Love demands you indulge in such madness,
listen closely to how you must proceed...”
Keywords/Tags: Virgil, Aeneid, descent, underworld, Aeneas, death, door, Jupiter, heaven, woods, Cocytus, River Styx, Stygian, Hades, Tartarus, voyage, journey, love, madness, god, gods
In flood the creek is still a walk over.
A limp washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
or delta of anything at all.
The opaque water slides through low,
then after a few miles, seeps into a
wallow of bottomland.
It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
built beside its muddy banks
is called, ‘Silver Water Creek’.
I think of my bookshelf,
Mark Twain’s, ‘Life on the Mississippi’,
then a trip here being taken to nowhere,
my own disappearing.
In flood the stream is still a walk over.
A limp washing of the land,
a hesitant flow, never meant to be a tributary,
or delta of anything much at all.
Here and there, the no name trickle
turns into only a turgid sludge.
The opaque water slides through
low, and unremarkable,
then after a mile or less, it muddily seeps
into a dank wallow of bottomland.
It recently has been given a name,
a new housing development
is being built beside its indefinite banks,
it is now named: Sweet Water Creek.
Such is the lie
of the land around here.
Accepting aloneness, incomplete solitude, imperfect rest. The garden
wasted, pumpkin patch planted late, potatoes untasted left in ground.
A thousand email addresses, each unique represents a flame of
passion, compassion, desperation or depression. To understand, to know's
impossible. It is therefore only reasonable to observe the shadows
on the mountain, the actions of the dreamer which tell us something,
little, nothing of his dream. It's a simple secret shared,
longevity. The half breed John Russell says it right, the
date and place don't matter, dry desert or cold mountainside,
lush bottomland, soulless or hospitable, contagious hospital.
The best laugh's death's, a perfect escape, perfect error, perfect
rest. Their solicitude's unnecessary, grief is temporary, life goes on,
you go under, underemployed, the undertaker's never unemployed.
Forensics prove an ovary with two chambers, ovule adnate to the funicle.
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