I loved you
and that has left me
a sister of a dead order.
I carry in asters
gone from purple to brown
to lay on the altar
but can't set them down.
Faith is a funny thing and I carry a cross
though the texts are tainted,
the deity lost.
St. Catherine of Alexandria
was nourished by milk from doves--
not by the relics and bones
of the notion of you, that I loved.
I am of the order, but not the abbess
at whose jeweled theca ghosts bow--
I carry my head like the body and bread
of the Chosen One loved by you now.
______
for Dverse Meeting The Bar "Conceit"
I looked forward reading yours... and it didn't disappoint. Love how you described those asters going brown. Made me think of Miss Havisham of Great expectations.
ReplyDeleteI read that in what is now called middle school, Bjorn, and never forgot creepy Miss Havisham and her ruined wedding feast.
DeleteI concur with Björn (I was looking forward to this, and as expected, it’s killer).
ReplyDeleteThe opening lines are potent. I read it about 3 times before I let myself continue with the rest.
You are very talented. I’m so glad I get to read this.
Thank you, Darius! And back atcha ;-)
DeleteI can't decide if this is metaphor or literal! There is such realism in the ghoulish images.
ReplyDeleteThen I've done my job!
DeleteYou weave your magic so well, never fail!
ReplyDeleteThank you for stopping by.
DeleteThis is so sharp. Funny what we hang on to, and what falls away…
ReplyDeleteIndeed!
DeleteSo many great images in your poem... bones of notion of you...
ReplyDeleteVery nicely done!
Thank you, Dwight.
DeleteFaith vs reality was what I gathered from your poem. This line stood out for me: a sister of a dead order.
ReplyDeleteExactly so, Grace.
DeleteGreat stuff, Shay, a lot going on here, all that religious imagery! And I like the labels, brought to mind Billy Joel: "You catholic girls start much too late"..JIM
ReplyDeleteThanks, but I've always thought that was a really stupid line.
DeleteI, too, love how you've played with the church imagery:
ReplyDelete'Faith is a funny thing and I carry a cross
though the texts are tainted,
the deity lost.'
We're asking for heartache when we deify another human being!
Isn't that the truth?
DeleteAnother brilliant piece of artistry Shay — damn! Your mind is like a jeweled cavern. And them you post a pentangle piece — looove Pentangle! My first Pentangle album was “Sweet Child”. Bought it in 1968. I loved the hypnotic vocal harmonies of McShee and Renbourn. Their voices together were magical. I was singing rock with my band Stone Fox, but when I wanted to destress I’d roll one, and smoke off into the ether listening to Pentangle, and adding Its A Beautiful Day in ‘69. Loved escape into that mellow!
ReplyDeleteGot to love those bands, Rob!
DeletePowerful words there.....such strong imagery...
ReplyDeleteThanks.
Delete‘I carry in asters
ReplyDeletegone from purple to brown
to lay on the altar
but can't set them down.’
Wanting to accept the finality of it, but you just cannot. This was wonderful Shay.
Thanks, PFH.
DeleteLate to the party, and what a fest it is, full of the flavor of All Souls, where so much more than the Dead are remembered, as here. The writer seems the tired caretaker of the essence of life, of faith even, both not exactly what we might think they are. I especially love the last two stanzas, both the finish and the one that gives the title--ironic, dry, but full of the sea-spray of emotion. Hell of a poem, Shay.
ReplyDeleteThank you, my dear BFF. I always especially look for your comments.
DeleteI am of the order, but not the abbess .... Sister Poetess thy name is Shay.
ReplyDeleteYou are too kind, Helen! See you at Muse this weekend!
DeleteWhat we hold dear and cannot let go does leave a mark. I LOVE this poem Shay and the rhyme holds it up even higher. Your imagery always amazes me!!!
ReplyDeleteWe still hang on to faith. Excellent imagery.
ReplyDeleteAh how hard it is this thing called letting go
ReplyDeleteNice one
Much💛love
I love that you start this out with “notion” and its double meanings—as if maybe you’re holding onto a tiny trinket of touch-memory that keeps the love alive, even if seemingly buried.
ReplyDelete“at whose jeweled theca ghosts bow” ... This line and the last stanza are my favorites.
I always read your tags, which to me are like a chorus to the main event. Like you are wrangling reverb on a poem, providing more depth and humor.
ReplyDeleteYeah, I wonder, too. ~