person Eleanor Gray, four poems

Eleanor Gray is the author of marshland moon (Dink Press, 2016}

~

1

I find the sea a thing familiar, the dark heart of crowded trees,

the rough half-sleep of wing-beats, a soft flutter of fox sleep

 

early, I come and set the bowl of blood on stone for the raven

 

I come to the field of the soul, where all is perennial, and distant

 

the moon comes, a lover, that rises from the edge of a strange sorrow

 

unthinkable, this

                                                to go into the dark and remember

 

I find treason in the hidden hinge, where the gods sit and never listen

 

the yellow borrowing of flight, pitched toward some ever-place

 

the untongue of the absent nape

 

 

the day has released the hounds, the antlered women woven and embellished,

the dauntless shaking wings of a dragon

                                                                              that does not know how to cherish

 

upheaved night-birds that leave and extinguish in the garnet wood

 

leafclutter & wood-rot, sweet, it is a soft thing

 

all eats of me                                 dewcold spring, the sea, immensity

 

I come, begotten of the white oak tree, the woods held in sweet smell which recede

to the resolve of lilies

 

I come because hunger traces the bog, the salt-row harvest, the redmouthed mare of
dawn

I come knowing the grave, the earth which deceives, yellow and its immediacy

 

I’m letting go, the night, exhausted, the heart of trees, coveted

 

the lamps go out about the valley, carrying the weight of nameless stars

 

for you, only this was ever known

~

2

in the good years, the language of faith, autumn, blood

seeping near the surface of all things

 

the soul of a mountain night, meadowed birds, the voice

against winnowed woods and mist a silvered-blue hood,

an anchored moment

 

all matters of sacrifice and ritual had befallen, there were gates

that opened to nowhere, a sea breathless with the names

of the forgotten

 

with the heart enduring such madness, surely it had to change,

the taste of an animal on the tongue, charred pond light

 

a burdened heart in the field of the wolf, the frenzy of surrender,

a world dismantled with the beloved gone, a road white with

luminous moon and hushed confessions

 

already, it was too late,

the red rim of daybreak

 

what was feared was the wilderness, abandonments

beyond description, a wasted life

 

not a stranger, but a pause, neither known nor forgotten

a black lake between them, strange world, kingdom

of oblivion

 

a privilege, what is both kept and lost

~

3

among the leaves of evening, deciduous light, red orion,

the hushed confession of twilight, crows in a woodland

 

I come from the river

 

all is beckoning the dismantled world, it is a soft thing,

which calls and listens, but never comes

 

concoct of wistfulness and laminous cold, garnet-winged birds

pitched towards some ever-woods, a tender place

 

the long marriage of the otherworlds is over, there is no oaktime gate

for departure, or the blue-depth water holding the secret of

the Other’s name

 

we are reduced to our own tongue, few colors, and all

that is unremembered

the sea, nothing else: unconquerable solitude

 

votive flower, lilies amongst timelessness, blue-lipped lake, hills of

hemlock and heather, the rush of hungered hounds across the endless

breast of distance

 

this is no longer your country, I tell myself, like a creature in love

now, it is only earth that exists here, stained with the red tint

of mothwings, unutterable mouth, mute grasses,

a tongue speaking impermanence

 

animal skin swaddled and brindled with the plain weave of river

loss, the price of being, wingless creatures, nightflesh sublime

 

what is it that remains closed, distant, foreign? where do our lives

empty themselves? is there a plain that holds all

the unbearable?

 

I grow hunched and quiet, I lessen, I lessen, I do not carry it,

I carry nothing,

 

uncertainty skims its waters, at times, I drown, I do not remember

nor does the dawn come and have arms with which to hold me

~

4

ever othersea, soul of a mountain-night, it is a predatory

darkness, wincing with stars

 

worlds outside of me, always alive, seamless with livid,

seeping pale creatures and old gods

 

I am unwieldy with prayer, the wistfulness of an empty field,

here is a want         I cannot             let go

 

we will not die, I think, though Electra still mourns, and Medea

has submerged

                                herself in blood

 

can I claim to be any different?

 

to this, I have acted accordingly: fearful, fleeting, changed

 

unthinkable, this, to be pitched towards to some ever-place

where she is not

 

Oh, immateriality of distance, can one sentinel a spent, and gone love?

 

I come to this unutterable loneliness, murmuring mossed ruins, valleys

adrift in dark distance, all that is not known to me

 

the smell of wood-rot, sweet

outside of me

an oracle has gathered,

 

hunger has taken the shape of a coyote, crossing the white field

and steep hilled hemlock, all that is unremembered

 

votive flower, it is a soft thing, to give up

 

so I run to the conjurer, the witch, the worn hooves of a satyr

roaming deathless

 

I am the possessed amidst the hydrangeas, the dismantled world,

uncovered from ancient harvests and the whirl

                                                                                                of mothwings

 

where do our lives                                                                empty themselves?

 

unbearable fields, eclipsed by trees and blue-depth waters,

timeless with the throes of black lilies and up-heaved birds

that flit and extinguish in the garnet wood

 

let

the day release

the hungered hounds

 

let

the moth

return me

8 thoughts on “person Eleanor Gray, four poems

  1. Pingback: 2 – ISACOUSTIC*

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