Being of, but not of this place

About half way up

an agitation starts to stir: the Tabletop

phantoms, spectra of old-world urges 

being pulled from the hard-bitten earth --

the unfamiliar patois of birch and poplar

unlike any other I’ve ever heard --

the ancient song of life being disturbed.

     Having lugged cross country

the questions of a transplanted son, 

one of the generations of Adam’s bantlings

scattered about the lands, I’ve resolved

to know my beginnings, to find 

some clean, clear-eyed understanding 

to being scraped from the soil, 

the original purpose of his intent 

on leaving.

     When my guide points

inward, I feel the hesitation of a follower, 

of stepping away from the comfort of what

I know: almost certain the myths 

may not be as accommodating to me 

as I long imagined. The echo, faint

but distinguishable, already there --

you are of but not of this place, 

one of the gone astray 

souls handed over to Perdition.

     What remains, barely 

visible, a burned out carriage  

of a house, the ancestral cradle 

of fathers, can’t be squared --

turned to fit the fading daguerreotype 

I fixed to mind.

     The mountain’s chill

autumn breath begins to wrap itself around

my ache, the dull realization 

the holes I carry are absences of my own

making, handiwork of an itinerant tailor

too consumed by legend, ghosts, 

to tend to the practicalities of living 

life above the six feet allotted --

that the house I need to unpack 

isn’t here.

     And far away, where 

soot and ash still smouldering

suggest something worth saving, 

the fluttering perturbation of a home 

breaking against the pane of a windshield

turns me around, back towards 

the more pressing questions I need to answer.  

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[Rafia Anjum]

life above the six feet allotted --
that the house I need to unpack
isn’t here.
amazing remind me the graveyard poet

[W. Barrett Munn]

A great introspection into heritage but reality and hopes/expectations collide.
But pressing needs of living intervene.
A great trip, Ken.

Winston

[DIVYA]

When the guide points inwards, the poet is hesitant to follow. We all are hesitant, perhaps because we are afraid of what we'll see or find in ourselves. It feels sad, because we are us, but not really our true selves and as you say, being of, but not of this place.

As the chill of Autumn catches up, the realization begins to seep in of how our holes we carry are of our own making, we the itinerant tailors were absent for ourselves,busy living a life of illusions and misconceptions, so unaware of our own inner state.

The last verse brings much hope of turning around and salvaging the self after facing destruction. I agree so much that it is never ever late to find that true home within.

A very introspective poem that took me on a deep journey within myself. I learnt so much on reading you today. Thank you for sharing your words.

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you for reading DIVTA, and for the depth of your review

[DIVYA]

It was such a pleasure Ken!
Have a nice day. 🙋‍♀️