Orbler
Byron Twain
Brenton
Dexter
Jeanne Dininni
Shilpa KarhikThe Weed by Elizabeth Bishop
January 11th 2008 00:05
The Weed
by Elizabeth Bishop
I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
stood frozen, drawn immense and clear,
stiff and idle as I was there;
and we remained unchanged together
for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion,
as startling, there, to every sense
as an explosion. Then it dropped
to insistent, cautious creeping
in the region of the heart,
prodding me from desperate sleep.
I raised my head. A slight young weed
had pushed up through the heart and its
green head was nodding on the breast.
(All this was in the dark.)
It grew an inch like a blade of grass;
next, one leaf shot out of its side
a twisting, waving flag, and then
two leaves moved like a semaphore.
The stem grew thick. The nervous roots
reached to each side; the graceful head
changed its position mysteriously,
since there was neither sun nor moon
to catch its young attention.
The rooted heart began to change
(not beat) and then it split apart
and from it broke a flood of water.
Two rivers glanced off from the sides,
one to the right, one to the left,
two rushing, half-clear streams,
(the ribs made of them two cascades)
which assuredly, smooth as glass,
went off through the fine black grains of earth.
The weed was almost swept away;
it struggled with its leaves,
lifting them fringed with heavy drops.
A few drops fell upon my face
and in my eyes, so I could see
(or, in that black place, thought I saw)
that each drop contained a light,
a small, illuminated scene;
the weed-deflected stream was made
itself of racing images.
(As if a river should carry all
the scenes that it had once reflected
shut in its waters, and not floating
on momentary surfaces.)
The weed stood in the severed heart.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
It lifted its head all dripping wet
(with my own thoughts?)
and answered then: "I grow," it said,
"but to divide your heart again."
Review in poem by Dexter
Rape of the soul or of the body, violation of spirit?
Permeating metaphor, ripening subtext conjures illustration,
The enigma of meaning, sexual interpretation, to death?
Perhaps emotional dykes, levies of love,
Nauseating rejection and discharging heartbreak.
Relationship blooms, coercion of branches to flesh,
The heart storms, roots infiltrate the core, tainting petals.
Manipulated affection, water of life polluted,
Instincts of elk to light, extinct tragedy.
Pain and loss, exhaustion of resource and resolve,
Escape the torture tsunami, shelter in sleep, forever.
Time passes, feelings unchanged, haunting,
Dictating ugly blossoms, smashed repulsion of Trust.
by Elizabeth Bishop
Elizabeth Bishop
I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
stood frozen, drawn immense and clear,
stiff and idle as I was there;
and we remained unchanged together
for a year, a minute, an hour.
Suddenly there was a motion,
as startling, there, to every sense
as an explosion. Then it dropped
to insistent, cautious creeping
in the region of the heart,
prodding me from desperate sleep.
I raised my head. A slight young weed
had pushed up through the heart and its
green head was nodding on the breast.
(All this was in the dark.)
It grew an inch like a blade of grass;
next, one leaf shot out of its side
a twisting, waving flag, and then
two leaves moved like a semaphore.
The stem grew thick. The nervous roots
reached to each side; the graceful head
changed its position mysteriously,
since there was neither sun nor moon
to catch its young attention.
The rooted heart began to change
(not beat) and then it split apart
and from it broke a flood of water.
Two rivers glanced off from the sides,
one to the right, one to the left,
two rushing, half-clear streams,
(the ribs made of them two cascades)
which assuredly, smooth as glass,
went off through the fine black grains of earth.
The weed was almost swept away;
it struggled with its leaves,
lifting them fringed with heavy drops.
A few drops fell upon my face
and in my eyes, so I could see
(or, in that black place, thought I saw)
that each drop contained a light,
a small, illuminated scene;
the weed-deflected stream was made
itself of racing images.
(As if a river should carry all
the scenes that it had once reflected
shut in its waters, and not floating
on momentary surfaces.)
The weed stood in the severed heart.
"What are you doing there?" I asked.
It lifted its head all dripping wet
(with my own thoughts?)
and answered then: "I grow," it said,
"but to divide your heart again."
Weeds Strangulation Beauty
Review in poem by Dexter
Rape of the soul or of the body, violation of spirit?
Permeating metaphor, ripening subtext conjures illustration,
The enigma of meaning, sexual interpretation, to death?
Perhaps emotional dykes, levies of love,
Nauseating rejection and discharging heartbreak.
Relationship blooms, coercion of branches to flesh,
The heart storms, roots infiltrate the core, tainting petals.
Manipulated affection, water of life polluted,
Instincts of elk to light, extinct tragedy.
Pain and loss, exhaustion of resource and resolve,
Escape the torture tsunami, shelter in sleep, forever.
Time passes, feelings unchanged, haunting,
Dictating ugly blossoms, smashed repulsion of Trust.
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