Being of, but not of this place

Being of, but not of this place

A Poem by Ken e Bujold

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

© 2022 Ken e Bujold


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

Posted 2 Months Ago


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

Winston

Posted 2 Months Ago


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.

Posted 2 Months Ago


Ken e Bujold

2 Months Ago

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

2 Months Ago

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

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Added on November 26, 2022
Last Updated on November 26, 2022

Author

Ken e Bujold
Ken e Bujold

Somewhere in Ontario, Canada



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