Interinsular by Dane CampbellYou and I will never be one.
I will never somehow miraculously become
a native indigenous to your island.
I admire, in lieu, its shores from afar.
I study the maps you produce,
your hand, adept in its cartographical pursuits,
has drawn in rich detail the lines of delineation,
each geospatial phenomenon,
every hill, every mountain, every sea,
you evoke with stunning mastery,
the dark majesty of your wildwood in which
probative vividness permits one to stand,
though I keep a measured distance as a rule of thumb.
You and I will never be one.
But nor will I ever be done.
I, for many years now, have fanatically swum,
stative, in vigilance, and upon dry land.
I inquire into the doors left ajar.
The bloody footsteps of abuse,
his brand, have crept along the viatical routes
to your internal hell, the times of annihilation,
electron meeting positron.
Traumas turn to poetry; it's a kind of alchemy.
Possessed, you exorcise memory,
the stark misery of your childhood. You itch,
creative, to write out the demons. I understand,
having likewise endeavored, myself a rag wrung from.
The wringing will never be done. 02/03/2014 Posted on 02/03/2014 Copyright © 2024 Dane Campbell
Member Comments on this Poem |
Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 02/05/14 at 12:12 AM Symbolic map of living and dealing with relationships outside and within. Dark strife but not giving up. |
Posted by Johanna May on 02/05/14 at 11:12 AM "The wringing will never be done."
This truth bludgeoned me, it did not hurt because you made it beautiful.
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Posted by Rob Littler on 05/06/14 at 06:00 AM and it's a kind alchemy |
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