Truthful Heredity

There are trees at the edge
of the perceived desert, savannahs
(another word for mirage or heaven), a never
faltered fallen place, fractured,
an older but simpler birthing, right-side-up
in earth to start with, forthcoming
upon something shocking, bright
(I see the trees of men) an oasis of richly being,
raised out of here, just here, the gossamer dirt
a reckoning and mindful taking of strides,
grown lazing in the sun, dappling these miles
in measured dunes, even (within consciousness)
the dawn strays supple in this lofty thread
sifting up the sun, like a siphoned Boas
with his blank progeny, crashing in.
Stepped into stalemates geographical, american
loyalties branded and standing straight aloft:
the method of science
is to begin with questions, not with answers.
And his heaven being hidden inside his own gaze
sadly begets songs, hymning to this sad sight;
falling all down, like nuclear daisies
while others had him allied past hurdles he wrought,
instead of seeking evolution’s other inner seed.
Be braver, this looking up and above writes histories,
Past ugly bodies, past blood
many of them that doubt the ages, blindly
become the last resonance, the final palace
where red looks seeping and life floods.

Author's Note

The Read.Write.Prompt (Join In: readwritepoem.org) for this week has to do with transliteration. I was scared about it at first, but I did it anyways. And I like where it took me. Dana mentioned Beowulf or Greek texts to play with. I chose “Gawain & the Green Knight,” (in anglo-saxon) by JRR Tolkien for my Source material.

Here is what I started with.

“And nawþer faltered ne fel þe freke neuer þe helder,
Bot styþly he start forth vpon styf schonkes,
And runyschly he raȝt out, þere as renkkez stoden,
Laȝt to his lufly hed, and lyft hit vp sone;
And syþen boȝez to his blonk, þe brydel he cachchez, 5
Steppez into stelbawe and strydez alofte,
And his hede by þe here in his honde haldez;
And as sadly þe segge hym in his sadel sette
As non vnhap had hym ayled, þaȝ hedlez he were
in stedde. 10
He brayde his bulk aboute,
Þat vgly bodi þat bledde;
Moni on of hym had doute,
Bi þat his resounz were redde.”

I took each line and transliterated them according to the feeling the words seemed to impress upon me. But it sounded somewhat archaic in language (not my usual style at all), so I wrought it a bit, adding and moving and shaping the impressions I began with. As always in my case, I never know where I am going when I begin… but who knew that the anonymous author of Gawain had foreknowledge of Franz Boas? “…And syþen boȝez …” (*wink).

Reviews

[Emily B]

wow! and no one came to review . . . that is a shame