Elemental
I’ve burned so little in my life,
fire the thing I tend to shirk,
whereas water, air, earth—
are my truer elementals. `
Pilot light, hearth, the lonely glow
of a cigarette in the dark,
a Turner in the Tate,
all spell dynamite to me.
Instead, I seek the humid:
along the salmon-full river,
to be a beaver comfortable
in his lodge, known
but seldom seen,
a private being who sleeps,
but also builds,
indeed, is regarded
as keystone . . .
. . . with Keats nearby
to teach me that capability,
of disappearing into presence,
sinking into mystery;
to where the sight of a hawk
in mid swoop, mid soar,
any mid-air shape-shift,
exalts—and the call
of the nightingale
slays the poem;
to where maples catch,
break, rain’s relentless descent,
and each drop rolls
to the leaf’s edge,
to fall gently, seeping
into loamy soil,
or quiver until it pops,
rising into the ethereal.
The notion of purity may be suspect,
but there's an incandescence
that has yet to reach me.
Do, undying embers, do:
light me up, make me work,
or try, for something beautiful
wants a torch, something
moist, rooted, airborne,
to be consumed—
something salamandrine.
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I love your writing Alan. Something in your poetry fits me like a glove. Thank you 💚
Wonderful flow to this piece ⭐️