Tempus Frangit

Time  to go clear a path out of here so I can get out of the apartment, where I’ve been cooped up almost 48 hours… meeting up with some classmates on this gloriously beautiful day. I’ll be back tonight to scope out the RWP results and reply to comments and write some more… oh man this is a good week for writing! This one is last week’s Poetic Asides prompt that I never posted; the challenge was to write a “backwards poem”, so I did a zeyexewrius (choose two points in the dictionary, work your way back from the one to the other, populate your poem with randomly chosen words) because I love them so. See if you can find the words I picked!

Tempus Frangit

Temporal mechanics for a poet was never her cup of tea:
her talent was in taking stock of the tadpoles in ponds,
surfaces dazed with sunlight and littered with strawberry flowers,
crafting stanzas and spiteful songs of their simple beauty.
She was a sharpshooter of the predicate: she could dig up
every severance in the salina out back, put the mosquito hawks
to rhythm and radio wave, with her words. She was
the quintessence of observation, quiet regards, prudent thoughts.

Yet despite her prosperity, she felt the absence of her pole star,
plangent heavenly body rotating without an axis. She would
have peculiar dreams that took on the pattern of language,
science fictional, overstepping the boundaries of space-time,
the most ordinary thing in the world, to open the obscurity of
past and future, nocturnal vision complicating like a nautilus.
What music to gaze into that mirror, what a miracle to ride
those memory shards, a mayfly, a mariposa oblongata.
And as she is literati, she is learned in these ways,
kookaburra cackling at the known and unknown alike.

So she jumped in headlong. But must be a jinx, a curse
from the intimate parts: seek not this innermost sight
or you will lose yourself, iconoclasm of the you, the she,
the I, what’s to come and what’s already, hubris and hominid.
That heavenly hourglass, every heartstring is gripped by it,
it grasps with regretful, ambitious quicksand, scrawls graffiti
on the genome. Where has she landed? Her eyes gaze
elsewhere, genius futuris, brilliant fugitive, bound but free.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s