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Open Poetry #46
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The Old Gate
| Open Poetry #46 |
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The Old Gate |
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Ratleader
since 2003-01-23
Posts 7026Visiting Earth on a Guest Pass 
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The Old Gate The gate's forgotten how to creak; its memory is rust. I make a story: every gate's a promise and a truth, The little sag of it that tags an arc across the grass, Scrubs out an edge as if to prove somehow there's traffic still, The nobbled drops of hasty paint from some decaded hand Tell tales; but why a gate at all, where there's no fence to mind? Why use it now? The gate would never know, but I would mind, Walking around a gate. A heart can find worse things than rust Within itself, and greater slights than any painter's hand, However rushed, might leave: slights of respect, of care, of truth. Step through with me, together we may find an answer still, Although more likely, all of it is hidden under grass. Of course there was a house. Gates and foundations, gates and grass Go hand in hand, each plants the other sure as heart and mind, As family and home, as war and peace. Flat traces still Remain, oh yes, did I not warn of this, worse things than rust Within the heart? These few and scattered bricks ring out a truth, Of hearth, of flame and later yet of fire fought by hand, Or fought by hands, too few of them to matter, fought by hand, The same that laid the fence, the roof, set out this grass, This tree, and later lay beneath it, if we knew the truth. No marker speaks of it but still we know; spirit and mind Perceive in different ways; the thrust of time, the words of rust, The maple of uncertain age that stands alone and still. One thing we know, they wanted it to last and it's here still When all the rest is gone. Paint even from a hurried hand Stops time, and oil - or tractor grease more likely -- holds back rust. We lose, when do we not? And later still, welcomed by grass Of our own planting, and the world again, heart over mind Know both beyond the knowing, past the past, it is the truth. Alone together we may choose to say the gate is truth, Or truth the gate, a certain afterthought that's standing still When all those other things have gone away, time out of mind. Four things that last then, four wrung from the spirit, from the hand: The maple tree and the foundation, yes, the gate, and grass, Two living, one that's fading into earth, one into rust. These things are needed, mind and promise, and the gate of truth, The rust of things too soon forgotten, edge of time gone still, Two hands to paint the sagging gate, two hearts to love the grass. ~~(¸¸¸¸ºº> ~~(¸¸¸¸ºº> ~~(¸¸ ¸¸ºº> ~~~(¸¸ER¸¸ºº> |
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| © Copyright 2010 Ed Ratledge - All Rights Reserved | |||
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ThisDiamond Member Rara Avis
since 2002-02-22
Posts 9353Michigan, USA |
A delight to read you again Ed. |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Philosophy 303.  |
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Ratleader
since 2003-01-23
Posts 7026Visiting Earth on a Guest Pass |
Ha, more like Sestina 101! Howdy Sunshine 'n Diamond....I'm never sure whether I'm here even when I'm here, but it's good to see friends hereabouts. ~~(¸¸¸¸ºº> ~~(¸¸¸¸ºº> ~~(¸¸ ¸¸ºº> ~~~(¸¸ER¸¸ºº> |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Ed...you touch on something that aches in every heart, I think, but can't be explained as beautifully as you have here in this poem. So good to see you posting! |
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latearrival Member Ascendant
since 2003-03-21
Posts 5499Florida |
Ed, Beautiful to read and wonderful to see you posting. I could really see that fence and tufts of grass on which it plants it's feet. I could visualize the tree and parts of the foundation to a house that was once home. The metal fence and chipped fading paint. I was there, standing off to the side and I could also see the past so clear. The clothes line with linens hanging there; the wispy touch of a small wind to dry them; a little box with sand and shovel for small hands to play and stack a castle. I see it all, it sits upon a hill, little buttercups are smiling there, Oh how I see and love the place I drifted to, because of you. Thanks for stopping by,latearrival |
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Klassy Lassy Member Elite
since 2005-06-28
Posts 2187Oregon |
It is really nice to read your work again. This is a treaure of a poem with much to ponder. I've never thought of a gate in quite this way before, but I like very much regarding it as a guardian of truth, and as such, it remains--sometimes painted and battered, something skirted by human foible, but still sentry. I've read this sestina form of poetry a couple of times, not quite understanding what comprises the requirements, but this one speaks to me more than the other two I've read, maybe because we all seem to have those gates to remind us of mind and spirit and that of earth from which it rises and survives. And then the grass...our lives are as grass. I truly enjoy the way you conceived this and left me food for thought. Intelligent art. Beautiful. Substantial. KL |
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JamesMichael Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336Kapolei, Hawaii, USA |
Enjoyed...James |
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Billie Cullimore Member
since 2009-03-27
Posts 315 |
You have given us all a lot to think about. very nice Billie C. |
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Alison
since 2008-01-27
Posts 9318Lumpy oatmeal makes me crazy! |
I had to sneak in and save this. I have read it several times and I was drawn back yet again. A |
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suthern
since 1999-07-29
Posts 20723Louisiana |
A heart can find worse things than rust Within itself, and greater slights than any painter's hand, However rushed, might leave: slights of respect, of care, of truth. When the master of free verse puts his mind to rhyme... the results are sublime. *S* In your words we see home places that have been deserted and left to ruin... feel relationships that have suffered the same fate... and I'm rejoicing that you're one who'll use old gates... even when they stand alone, their fences long gone. *S* Beautiful work!! |
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