paradoxical
03-18-2010, 02:34 AM
reading Bhagavad Gita
on the shore of Lake Martin,
I sit under cypress trees,
moss hanging from the branches
of live oaks that will endure
beyond a human lifetime
smell of magnolia blossoms
in humid Louisiana air,
honey suckle and trumpet vines
wrap around the trees
as an egret stands motionless
on the water's edge
the sun begins to set,
the sky like red wine
spills across the horizon,
reflecting like blood on the water,
I stand and slowly begin to walk
back down the gravel road
the sound of cicadas
deafens my ears with their calls
and in the darkening light
I am followed by ghosts,
the last true remains of the South,
brooding and noble with pain,
they plot revenge and reclamation
I think I understand the ghosts,
the way they scold us,
their attraction to this water,
and this land
there is life here
and there is the life of distant worlds
beyond what we can see and hear
at night, I look outside my window
and I know this is all illusion,
is that what they try to tell us?
in my dreams, I can feel the pull
of another reality,
but when I wake, it is gone
and even the world of sleep is illusion,
it is best left alone, forgotten
the best thing is to let it all go
and return to what is real,
not to this land
or my self or my thoughts and memories,
back to our true source,
and to let these ghosts rest
Well, I rewrote the poem and I'm pretty satisfied with it now. It shouldn't be so over-packed and the line cuts should be more natural.
The conclusion of the poem should also be a bit clearer now, but I don't want to give too much away by coming out and stating it. I think doing so would take away any effect it may have. I will say that it has to do with reincarnation and the idea that this world is a kind of illusion.
on the shore of Lake Martin,
I sit under cypress trees,
moss hanging from the branches
of live oaks that will endure
beyond a human lifetime
smell of magnolia blossoms
in humid Louisiana air,
honey suckle and trumpet vines
wrap around the trees
as an egret stands motionless
on the water's edge
the sun begins to set,
the sky like red wine
spills across the horizon,
reflecting like blood on the water,
I stand and slowly begin to walk
back down the gravel road
the sound of cicadas
deafens my ears with their calls
and in the darkening light
I am followed by ghosts,
the last true remains of the South,
brooding and noble with pain,
they plot revenge and reclamation
I think I understand the ghosts,
the way they scold us,
their attraction to this water,
and this land
there is life here
and there is the life of distant worlds
beyond what we can see and hear
at night, I look outside my window
and I know this is all illusion,
is that what they try to tell us?
in my dreams, I can feel the pull
of another reality,
but when I wake, it is gone
and even the world of sleep is illusion,
it is best left alone, forgotten
the best thing is to let it all go
and return to what is real,
not to this land
or my self or my thoughts and memories,
back to our true source,
and to let these ghosts rest
Well, I rewrote the poem and I'm pretty satisfied with it now. It shouldn't be so over-packed and the line cuts should be more natural.
The conclusion of the poem should also be a bit clearer now, but I don't want to give too much away by coming out and stating it. I think doing so would take away any effect it may have. I will say that it has to do with reincarnation and the idea that this world is a kind of illusion.