Transmutation
20/1/10 21:17![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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sovay this poem back in October. I've had part of the concept in my head since then, and about three weeks ago was walking around outside and got the line which started me on finishing it. Also, in the process of researching it, I found that there are still active alchemists. Apparently if you donate to the Great Work you can...take a 501(c)(3) tax-exempt write-off. Which seems anticlimactic, somehow.
--
You can hear me reading this poem in the Fall 2010 issue of Goblin Fruit.
Transmutation
Will you walk out of the air, my lord?
Into my grave. — Hamlet, II.ii
For all the ways of dying, there are four
for scattering the ashes of the dead.
You lay your body down on those flat seas
as if they'd been your bed.
The lace of bedclothes mocked by drying salt,
and a wave-lolled head.
Laying sleepless on the parapet
your eyes strained to pluck red-burning Mars.
The queen your mother's heart burns much the same
though it is knit from flesh and flesh's scars.
The roofs on roofs of Elsinore
lay each on each like fungus on a tree:
The sun's indifferent passing over town,
the points of narrow houses cast to ground.
Ophelia climbs the tallest, coldest stair:
below, the crying gulls lay flat
on seas of yellow grass
knotting patterns on the glassy planes of air.
sovay this poem back in October. I've had part of the concept in my head since then, and about three weeks ago was walking around outside and got the line which started me on finishing it. Also, in the process of researching it, I found that there are still active alchemists. Apparently if you donate to the Great Work you can...take a 501(c)(3) tax-exempt write-off. Which seems anticlimactic, somehow.--
You can hear me reading this poem in the Fall 2010 issue of Goblin Fruit.
Transmutation
Will you walk out of the air, my lord?
Into my grave. — Hamlet, II.ii
For all the ways of dying, there are four
for scattering the ashes of the dead.
You lay your body down on those flat seas
as if they'd been your bed.
The lace of bedclothes mocked by drying salt,
and a wave-lolled head.
Laying sleepless on the parapet
your eyes strained to pluck red-burning Mars.
The queen your mother's heart burns much the same
though it is knit from flesh and flesh's scars.
The roofs on roofs of Elsinore
lay each on each like fungus on a tree:
The sun's indifferent passing over town,
the points of narrow houses cast to ground.
Ophelia climbs the tallest, coldest stair:
below, the crying gulls lay flat
on seas of yellow grass
knotting patterns on the glassy planes of air.
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