Of Blood and Light

[dyne7]

"Of Blood and Light" by dyne7 Stars/Noms will become visible
after poem has been rated 10 times

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Ratings: 2


Of Blood and Light

The color of our childhood is yellow,
but not the bruised sort,
you know the one--
tarnishing to amber,
never letting up. Not even the night has a say.
No final word. No turning minute.
We hold on to that blinding light
like a swimmer pushing
to the surface of water,
like the word not fully erased
ghosting through the page,
like a buried toy whose hand breaks the surface
of earth for its owners blessing.
We ornament each other when we're young,
taken out, put back, removed again, replaced once more.
Tiny we are, citizens loyal. Never the one before the other.
Yet last night, I dreamt of a woman
whom I loved without respite. She was faceless.
And my lips doused her soft body
shear as paper.
I saw everything, but I could not tell you
the color. Not yellow. Something darker.
Something only the pores of our faces knew,
its light feeding recklessly on our blood.
I wanted her again, and again. And again.
And the next morning, before work,
I saw myself in pieces
hanging on the front porch,
forgetting that our eyes sometimes betray
themselves to what they know:
glass hummingbirds bleeding light.

[Delta40]

I particularly liked:

We hold on to that blinding light
like a swimmer pushing
to the surface of water,
like the word not fully erased
ghosting through the page,
like a buried toy whose hand breaks the surface
of earth for its owners blessing.


Very strong imagery and my impression of childhood with a fleck of adulthood was very interesting.

I am not sure about the line: Tiny we are, citizens loyal. Never the one before the other.
but mainly because I didn't see how it fitted in with my own interpretation

[Hawkman]

Yes, the line's inverted syntax jars a bit and doesn't work (at least for me) as the transition between the reflections on childhood memory and the adult dream. It's a bit of a non-sequitur to be honest, and the change in focus still comes over as too abrupt. I take the colour yellow to infer that recollections of childhood are golden, care-free memories while the recollection of lost love isn't so innocent.

The last line, which in itself is a beautiful image, also feels tacked on having no apparent flow or relevance to the preceeding lines. The colon doesn't help.

By shifting, "I saw myself in pieces," to a position as the penultimate line, the sense of meaning is more coherently conveyed.

"And the next morning, before work,
hanging on the front porch,
forgetting that our eyes sometimes betray
themselves to what they know,
I saw myself in pieces,
glass hummingbirds bleeding light."



Despite it's minor flaws this is a beautiful poem to read and wonderfully paced, incorporating powerful imagery with a lovely flowing rhythm to it.

Live and be well - H