On the Isla de los Fantasmas, the keeper's wife
spends dawn searching out exhausted birds on the pebbled beach.
She comes to them as if she were light itself
and believes herself to be light itself
but she is as broken as they are.
Realizing this, and wishing to compensate her for her kindness,
they transfer to her their laments, worn around her heart
like dolmens of sound. Within each one, she dies.
With each dawn, each bird, each song, she dies.
The wind is the keeper's wife singing.
It is not the currents of sky or water that exhaust the birds.
It is the endless impassivity of the surface they cannot bear.
Their wings are the pages of hymnals
their bodies are the bindings of hymnals
that can only close at last on the Isla de los Fantasmas.
The keeper's task is to keep the enormous eye of the light
emptying itself out at the water, and the weary birds.
The light comes to them as if it were the keeper's wife,
and believes itself to be the keeper's wife,
but she is down on the pebbled beach, in her dolmen, singing.
_________
for Sunday Muse #219.
Isla de los Fantasmas = Island of the Ghosts
a dolmen is a table-shaped tomb made of large flat stones
I don't know even how to talk about this poem.
ReplyDeleteHonestly, this is how I often feel about Shay's poems - they more often than not feel way deeper and over my head than I can hope to comprehend.
DeleteThese lines really spoke to me in particular:
"Their wings are the pages of hymnals
their bodies are the bindings of hymnals"
Much love,
David [ben Alexander]
http://skepticskaddish.com/
Oh...I think I need to sit with this for a while. Caught between breathing and crying.
ReplyDeleteI truly want to describe this poem as exquisite. It made me feel so many things and I couldn't stop reading it. I must have read the lines 4 times not wanting to let it go. You have an incredible talent my friend. The kind that is rarely seen.
ReplyDeleteYes. Your work should be recognized far beyond the blogosphere and I will never understand why it isnt. An amazement of a poem. I love all the birds, and, especially "Within each one, she dies.
ReplyDeleteWith each dawn, each bird, each song, she dies.
The wind is the keeper's wife singing." Sigh.
and believes itself to be the keeper's wife,
ReplyDeletebut she is down on the pebbled beach, in her dolmen, singing.
Love the close, a finality to the love of the keeper's wife. She is now entombed in heaven singing her love songs. Great imagination Shay!
Hank
This is simply gorgeous, Shay. For me, your poem spoke to faith / life / death / redemption.
ReplyDeleteShay, a mysterious and spell binding write.
ReplyDeleteOh Shay, you have such talent. It is a treasure to read. I feel this one. I feel so many lines. I am so lost in grief I don't even know who I am any more.
ReplyDelete"She comes to them as if she were light itself
ReplyDeleteand believes herself to be light itself
but she is as broken as they are."
Just one piece of a spectacular whole.