Tuesday, August 13, 2013


It is loss which dismembers us,
severs head from body in the cave,
fillets flesh and scrapes it from the bones,
rips out guts and hearts to be consumed,
reminds us, in the agony, of why we are
called to become, more than we have been.

As each eye sits, watchless, at the side,
and limbs are jointed and torn apart,
so is the Self reduced to small, quiet pieces,
and the task of resurrection, can, in time begin,
in darkness, and in suffering which is not believed;
birth can be brought from the very gobs of life.

As hook and knife and anvil do their work,
so what was known is dissected, pulverised
upon the hard, unforgiving, breathing stone,
and blood runs, freely, lightly into crevices and cracks,
pouring hope and vision into that which was cold and dead;
sacrificing in ironic clench, all that was once called truth.

Distant songs will drive the work of restoration,
to sing through notes sublime and cellular,
as destiny draws itself from dregs and liquid dross,
and daemons craft with small, fine hands new weavings,
which connect, what was, to what must be and ancient dreaming;
initiation will, in time, repeat, and circling, fall complete. 


  1. I agree that loss can dismember us, and it takes time....much time...before slowly but surely we are brought back to life once more.

  2. Wow, powerful piece. Having experienced loss this struck home.

  3. For me this wasn't about loss, this was an effective write of what it means to achieve life or more precisely personal freedom to live, the birthing of self by the destruction of the pre-programmed and the rebuilding and fine finishing of the new self. It's a magnificent poem that uses very specific words to build its metaphor. First rate work! Kudos.

    1. Thanks for your comments. I love the way we can find so much in poetry - pictures painted with words really and the same effect.

  4. Interesting...disturbing. I especially like the vision of the eyes sitting aside watching this inevitable dismemberment.