----- Original Message -----
From: "Alison Croggon" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Friday, December 09, 2005 7:54 PM
Subject: Poem
the longed for is reticent,
shadows of wings or leaves, light on a table
at evening when the heart soars for reasons it cannot know,
fullness of the torn self in its yielding
to the severance of speech, lips, words, o nothing
kissing the rim of day with its bright absence,
feathered with anguish, joyed, bloodied, rumpled
silhouette against the window¹s blindness
where something like music
trails its damage, score of sweat and ash, a faint
print of breath cooling in complex air
all this in the shape of a hand, regretless
tolling of those sensuous bells
blooming inside impossible dawns, deserts
breaking open after rain,
and there, inverted in the back of an eye, a tiny image
moves and speaks into distance, ungraspable
and whole and wholly innocent
as flowers are in their savagery, entirely efficient:
the excess is all ours, that flamboyance
merely an inscribing of impalpable spaces
sensed between one breathing and the next withheld
in necessary solitudes, between gesture and shadow, between
what remains of godliness and the chastened hand that reaches,
knowing better than this, reaches out to touch it
Alison Croggon
The lovely liquid language reminds me of LInda Saunders. A fine piece of
eloquence.
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