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the western grain
by Indigo Tempesta"St. Peter says" i am the rock
like Gibraltar is and an island besides,
safely ensconced beneath alabaster marble though
i heard that Noman is an island
-er, tragicomic thespian whose fault it was
[swathing in poseidean wrath all ilian veterans]
Peter turned and turned and turned
into the whirling mystic he is not
when we forget ourselves. hair fanning
into playful wings, licked sweat off of upper lip's
bald, salt-skin of the very young girl
with lamb's-down at the tooth's turn.
came He, laid his body out like silk, thirst-wrought, red doubt
jacked with rage; outpoured it all, scarlet, human stain.
and dashed He then the little one:
who said I will build upon
I will build I up
this the rock
who
consummatum est
upon this rock 12/07/2004 Author's Note: here are some eliot-esque footnotes:
--title: cf. william carlos williams, in the american grain
--line 1: st. peter, one of the apostles of jesus, who is considered the founder of the catholic church and the first pope. his name comes from the greek "stone."
--line 2: gibraltar: a fortress island in the atlantic; "i am a rock": a simon & garfunkel song with lyrics "i am a rock, i am an island/ and a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.
--line 3: cf. dickinson 216, "safe in their alabaster chambers"
--line 4: cf. homer, "the odyssey"; cf. donne, "meditation XVII"
--line 6: cf. homer, "the odyssey" and virgil, "the aeneid"
--line 7: peter denied jesus three times before the cock crowed.
--line 15: psalms 137
--line 16: matthew 16:18
--line 20: john 19:28; translated, "it is finished."
Posted on 12/08/2004
Copyright © 2025 Indigo Tempesta
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 12/09/04 at 01:20 PM being you asked to tell, Indigo, I will and not with harsh words, I would say, you have constructed rather solidly, your foundation upon which you have weaved curiously paired thoughts and images in a sort of poetic blend that blurs at the edges, and avoids the hard lines. it is a wonderful technique, which Leonardo would call sfumato. |
| Posted by Max Bouillet on 01/27/05 at 01:01 AM The fleshy verse that bangs itself bloody between the hard place and the rock splatters its dashed images into the reader. The pulp that remains, stain the onion paper in the leather bound book under the weight of popes at the expense of epic storytellers. So much to take in. So many allusions. Horrific and beautiful. |
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