D I R G E, VI

metaphysical hopscotch, 2 dancers [hazel, plato]

We played metaphysical hopscotch on Hemlock Street.

I couldn’t get past 5 without ending in sink holes.

My lucky green paperweight disappeared overnight with one velvet shoe.

The dog slept on 7 because he was bored.

My body outgrew itself like an onion,

a floating target of bluebirds and cardinal flying home.

You played the guitar to appease dissonance.

One chord became a mystic.

I slept in a billowy cocoon because my deceased father told me;

the spine of a book that mutated into a snow butterfly.

When the pages evaporated, I became air.

If I flail philosophically, the outer sky might pick up the slack, impelling star.

A few beheld time illusory in golden hammocks.

I made up my mind, but it turned itself back, mythologically.

No emotional atlas existed on my coffee table.

All lines cast east wouldn’t proffer a magical shad,

one obsidian eye staring at the emboldened sun.

I was jealous of another’s travel climbing cliffs of marble.

You were worried about me, and I laughed in the wrong direction;

traveling backwards on a winding train, inventing trees.

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7 Responses to D I R G E, VI

  1. Ezra Weston Loomis Pound, Thomas Stearns Eliot, Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud,
    Paul-Marie Verlaine, around the northern hemisphere with wind whipping
    Their faces and yet, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Johann Heinrich Pestalozzi,
    Johann Friedrich Herbart, Gottfried Wilhelm (von) Leibniz all began to sing in praise.
    Nothing to settle and wasting no time they carved up the apple given Adam by Eve.

    Malidittu la lingua, malidittu in Siciliano means, ‘pretty bad,’ and the language, that’s English.
    Let it alone. Let it lie. They sing. Theseus is returning. Things will be set straight then. Around the corner
    In a native land, Calliope glides across it, the sea, with its surface, its depths, almost
    Languorous, slight undulations, scent of salt, Odysseus plucks the nerve string of Cyclops, and they fall
    Into concealment, singing praises: life, love, happiness, sorrow, anonymous malfeasance,
    Unintentional transgression of the land, of Bedouins, of neutralizing the enemy, in Thanatos.

    Still, they cry, they sing praises. The gold and the preciousness of the stones drives us mad.
    The curly tendrils of the vine drive us mad.
    The effervescence of the surf drives us mad.
    The carved-out tortoise shell of Hermes drives us mad. Our tears become mud in the dirt.
    Orpheus drives the mad ones out. He steers the course that no men see, no men understand,
    To no man’s land. To the Bedouins of Jerusalem it’s Christmas. In Jerusalem it’s Christmas with
    Or without the city walls that shed tears of human stupidity on the dirt. The severity of the stupidity
    Will only be settled by intimation, not intimidation,
    Settled by salutation, not infestation,
    By songs, praise, levity, in the Levant, in Jerusalem, magpies with yellow eyes, and sparrows arch.
    Mad songs of the dervish, magpies take flight, devilish grace, unabashed importunity, entirely settled.
    It drives us mad, the sphere, the marble, the precarious stone, as magpies sail. Purification, it is named.
    In Jerusalem it’s Christmastime, time for praise, a place of grace, of eternal knowledge, of peace.

    We share by virtue of birth this resolution, this account (λόγος), this nature (φύσης), this song (μουσική),
    The wellness (ευεξία), la benessere, la dolce verità, la natale brava (this beautiful Christmas).

  2. Ahaha… to recall the precious little library where I first heard you recite and where you revealed to me your wonderful Hourglass Studies, still in manuscript. We all just said what we thought on the spot and gladly received any comment. I think more so because Bush was so scary. I wrote this spontaneously and ne’r edited a word, pure stream, based on the mesmerizing names of the thinkers, in an hour over coffee, first thing in the morning. It began in reflection on Wasteland, in response to reading D6. Your teaching was my motive. I miss all my great teachers.

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      I’m 99% sure that I didn’t share Hourglass Studies at the library in 2005, but a poet girl can be wrong!
      I was in that writing group mainly to get feedback on Maps and Shadows. I wish I had extra copies of the novel to send to you.

      Thank you so much for your comment and for reading my new work. Now that I reread this message on my laptop [I don’t have the dashboard view on my phone] to approve it, I want coffee, haha! On my way to second cup of the day to work on D VIII. I have VII to post and will do so a bit later today after final tweaks.

      HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU AND YOURS!

  3. I cannot wait for D7, never mind that there’s an 8 coming!
    1. I still have the copy of the excerpt from Hourglass Studies you gave me. It was because of that work that sold me on you.
    2. You had not yet begun Maps, but were working on The Glass House at the time.
    3. I bought and read Maps & S. years ago. It was a genre apart, to my mind, for you.
    4. I like your tight, enigmatic work best.
    5. Five. 🙂

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      Ahhh, interesting. I didn’t realize that Hourglass Studies was in my hands/purview at that time.
      However, I didn’t workshop Hourglass Studies, I’m almost certain.

      I workshopped two different chapters of Maps and Shadows, if my memory is reliable. I don’t think the other writers would no what to make of HS. Are you sure I didn’t give you a section privately?

      Dirge VII posted! More tweaks than anticipated. Time to walk Sir Eliot and clear my brain!

  4. No, you definitely did not workshop H. S., and, yes, it was private, which only added to the allure and cloak of mystery. It is not uncommon that an artist does not recognize her best work for being the best.
    I will reserve reading The New Dirge ‘till nightfall.
    Best, & HNY!

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