Orpheus Drunk

The first word I ever said was 'fire'

and now,

up

and down

I burn

and back

beyond the mortal bone.

'The rot of ages'

selling stones...

I wonder

if my center's home?

A cough came to remind me,

that staring

into the mirror

was, to the budgerigar's,

bird-like eyes,

a feast

of darkened

hallway walks

and much a very lucky surprise.

That sparkles

on my ochre sighs,

of when I turned

from left to right

and looked back,

(for loss of sight...)

to where I burned,

the smallest fires.

Holding a sword marked 'future'

in my firm grip.

Falling to my painless cheek.

Daisies hollow

by a creek,

Whispering

'mafada'

as I upped the stair.

Wondering,

of people,

I thought,

I remembered,

I knew!

But,

had forgotten.

So,

the scorches on the ceiling

were real!

The cold

electric glare

pushed me

sideways by the stair,

chipping teeth

high in the air

with seven swirls

in my hair.

Each

a flame

in the slow demise

of the Moon's fall

from the Earth

With the candles

and the hearth.

Daring the garden,

with new growth.

But,

dreaming of the harvest.

Reviews

[Court Steed-Oldwyn]

I often find that rhyming throws me off or takes me out of the poem but you have a very gentle, rhythmic way of using it that is really, really good!

[Brett Hernan]

Thank you very much, Court.
When I wrote this in 1987 it wasn't completely consciously created, in that it was 4.00 am and I had been 'out' that night. What a strange night it was.
There weren't any revisions made to the original draft of this poem as this is exactly how it came out.
Court, perhaps the reason you find it doesn't throw you as much as some rhyming poetry does is because the rhyming wasn't a deliberately intentional consciously made consideration. It was a purely spontaneous expression dragged from the depths of my subconscious and on to the page whilst I was in a chemical-induced introspective fiesta of self-comprehension/delusion.
As with this entire poem, on the night I wrote it, with a 'Durer' brand Prussian Blue drawing pencil, (an exceptionally dramatic colour, I have always felt), each word literally poured from me, (over a couple of hours, that is), and after constantly re-reading what had already been written until the next set of words arrived.
So many times did I read it that night that it was committed to memory by the time its final word was penned.
Sadly, the actual budgerigar that's mentioned died two days after witnessing my creative bout, the poor creature.
Either it was something to do with my looking right into its eye at points of intense concentration during the writing, or it may have been the unfortunate fact that the young woman who 'owned' the bird didn't know to put a sheet over its cage at night.
(In those days I didn't know this either!)
Actually, back then it seemed no-one knew much, except for certain highly esteemed persons with notoriety for their specialised knowledge.
These days even the village idiot, (e.g. moi), has more understanding and knowledge than some of the greatest minds of the fifth century B.C.
I wonder with what value human-kind will esteem knowledge in the distant future?
Will sensual experiences be more highly valued than understanding and knowledge since through the computer it's so easily accessible and freely found?
This quantum shift in comprehension may or may not be occurring en masse dependent upon which mind we're inspecting.
Either way, I'm completely off topic, so especial thanks for saying you thought my poem, 'really, really good'.
I like and appreciate a review containing such great praise.
Thanks again, Court.