The Creek

He walked out along the creek for a while.

Its water clear as glass; its currents converging and diverging to create scars upon its trembling surface. He placed each step carefully - not to disturb the water and cloud it. He had walked for three miles before reaching the treefall. The bark had sloughed off in great heaps now growing moss, and he could smell the tree’s decay along the banks. Just below, the creek came over a boulder and passed through the air a few feet before crashing back upon itself, forming a small pool where larval salamanders crept along the silt with their feathery gills bellowing. He recalled the poem:

My love said she would marry only me

and Jove himself could not make her care,

for what women say to lovers, you’ll agree,

one writes on running water or air

A log from the felled tree rested diagonally there, one end rooted in the pool and the other against the boulder preceding it. He lay down on it, the bark touching his bare stomach, and cupped his hands against the falling water to wash his face and drink. Then he turned over and lay on his back, his arms dangling at either side with fingertips grazing the pool’s surface; eyes to the cloudless sky, bordered by foliate black. He considered how long it would be before they found him, accounting for each variable as in an equation, and concluded they might not at all. Any intention he had of leaving was gone then.

Back again...

It's been quite a while since I've logged in here. I've been distracted by traveling, and also haven't been writing as much.
I thought at first my lack of writing might be a result of a lack of inspiration, but after reading through my past writings here I don't think that's the case. When I started this blog, I approached it with a fledgling's enthusiasm. I didn't care about what I wrote or how relevant or good it was - I just wanted to spew. I was enlivened by it.
Now, I feel it's much more sacred. I can't decide if that's for better or worse. Regardless, I'm more selective about writing now. More selective about what I want to write about, about the content, the context.

Anyway, I don't intend to go away for this long again. It was nice to read everyone's blogs and catch up. The holy trinity (you know who you are) has been productive.

Also, I started a tumblr: www.royarthurblodgett.tumblr.com

Bottle Half Buried

As he ducked under a branch,
it poured into his field of vision
There was a bottle half buried,
with a tapered neck protruding,
as from an earthen womb,
beyond the living forest floor
His mind flooded then
with the potential presented
That young lovers may have
slipped away unnoticed,
sharing between them its contents
Blood sweating in drunkenness
beneath the trees, the stars,
the hovering drone of fireflies...

Tuskbeast

He recognized the gathering of plants
as one remembers the burner of a stove,
but the nettles did not sting in daytime;
their acids absorbed in wool each night
At least his instincts told him so

He stood in the disarmed leaves,
watching as the dog wallowed in a rut
He closed his eyes and the ground cast aside;
each heave revealed a flash of cracked ivory,
a porcine snort, and a wrinkling snout

The dog wallowed still
frantic to place their wildness upon her;
she might once again be a wolf
And he considered:
Where did the tuskbeast slumber?

Only Segments

I remember only segments of the dream, but it's enough.
We were walking down a city street. It was nightfall. We were arguing about something, but already I felt defeated. At once there was a huge, dark, wooden structure with a windmill before us. I gasped at it's presentation. It was of the aesthetic I favored. But quickly I turned on it, and became annoyed when you wanted to go inside. It had changed now. Suddenly it was modern in presentation, with a black metal clock ticking on it's forward face. Something you'd see at a strip mall back in the States. And there were lines sectioned and a glass admission booth at the top of its steps. You bounded away for them, and I let out an exasperated remark (I know not what) before following. Inside was empty. The escalator hall looked like an airport at midday, but without people anywhere. There were no others. You jumped up onto an escalator climbing upward. I struggled after you, on an escalator adjacent but bound for the same direction. I was on my knees - so frustrated. I yowled and punched the near-mirror-finish of the metal siding. It warped my reflection grotesquely, and I regretted it immediately. Then I was running to keep up with you as ran down a hotel hall. I was calling out for you to just slow down. I wanted to talk to you. But you were babbling, saying nothing, as loud as you could, and plugging your ears with your fingers so as not to hear me as you skipped ahead.

It's much easier to understand now that I've read it in my own words.
I can't tell if that offers any comfort.

Seamless

I was studying cracks in the ceiling,
wondering if one could draw them;
draw the ceiling itself -
as it actually looked
I could hold the page at arm's length
above my face
and there would be no difference
Seamless

What would that be worth?

And over by the window
the light changes so subtly
on the ceiling
There is no fine line
showing light from dark
It's a gradation
so delicate
you can not tell light from dark
but if they were fragmented,
placed side by side
How does one render such?

What would it be worth?

There Were Others

There were others -
becloaked in moss and tree
I knew they were
but not where
Not what
I saw their leavings
and feasted upon them
Knees planted in the duff
offering my soul
to the forest
For I was a foreigner
standing at the meadow
Its depth descended in waves
of light and dark before me
And I felt,
there were others
Glassy-winged insects
landing upon my flesh
not to sting, but to eat
A putrid wallow,
surrounded by prints
The footfalls of the
beast were here,
preceding me
Any notion
mine might be the last
was vanity

Edgar Lee Masters

"I tramped through the country
To get the feeling
That I was not a separate thing from the Earth.
I used to lose myself
By lying with eyes half-open in the woods.
Sometimes I talked with the animals..."

Also:
"I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me—
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire—
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid."

Ilsanjo

Only one star hung in the sky then,
just a grain of salt in the scope of his vision,
and the moon hung waxing over the basin
where, naked, he swam once more
On his back, the concavity of the earth
seemed to press down around him
He could see the bats overhead
feasting on winged insects
The distant call of a great horned owl
careening across the surface of the water
The goings about of unidentified mammals
- one could hear their paws on the shore
He just swam there naked as them,
alone in his goose-bumped skin,
dusk closing in around Ilsanjo's waters
And he wanted for nothing

Reluctant Raven

Oh yes, I know
reluctant raven
you're so
flighty

Oh yes, I hear
shouting voices,
warn from
above

But don't you know
I ignore them
because I long to feel
your plush down

And don't you hear
so tenderly
my whispers meaning well
They're honest

Yes, I see you are young
not knowing how to fly
Surely I can do no better
but I'm willing to try
Just to try

Yes, I feel, feathered one
it's frightening to know,
whether we will plummet or soar
When right I'll let you go
Let you go

One Hundred Pounds

I recall the last time now
It came all at once to me,
as from an electric shock
My feet kicked upward
not reeling, but as pistons
intent to decapitate
I remember one heel
landing flush across the jaw
and the dead weight
He was separated then
- his body from his mind
One rendered useless,
and the other
on unfamiliar substrate
One where every strength,
every blatant advantage,
was my own
The one hundred pounds,
that profound disparity,
meant nothing now
And he knew

Obscene Embyro/Mossen Womb

He used his fingers only
to displace the earth
Pulling at sprawling roots, and
discarding their intentions
Their tendrils hung down
and touched his naked back
painting streaks across
his body as he moved
His forearms and elbows
aching and mud-caked,
a wreath of manzanita
entangled in his ashen hair,
and nostrils flaring before
the smell of soil and leaves
He dug a cavity there,
just enough to coil in,
and lined it with moss
Invertebrates roiled out
clambering for the light,
while groundwater dripped
freckling his skin with mud
He lay there unmoving,
an obscene embryo
in a mossen womb,
making no sound

Grandfather

His grandfather's face was not the same. It had been years, but they were buffered by a placid existence. It had weathered under the burden of internal oils seeping through in expressions unintended. One might recall that involuntary (embarrassing) quivering in the jaw as you seek a voice in the rightful place of sobs.

The iron oxidized.
The silver tarnished.

They sat on the tracks during the grandson's break from work and drank coffee as old friends might. These days the boy hadn't much time aside from those long shifts, and those he did were accounted for in days advance.

The dregs dribbled from a crease in a paper cup.

That rare silence only seen in times of death. It was all. He said it didn't matter much anymore, regarding that all would die alone. He said, "When the time comes, you'd better be your own."

A Real Why

She leaves them
all the same
Bleedin' heart;
an apology
I'd tell her now,
if I possessed the sway
a blink or bat of an eye
(that wincing smile),
she knows the one,
it's no response for
a thousand yard stare
And she can't even offer
a real why

The Mud

Sometimes it was just
the mud that called him
He knew it held meaning
but he didn't dare touch it
for it was something sacred
It was unspoken,
obviously explicable,
but without explanation
It didn't need one
It just was
So he wallowed

He's Forgotten/Doesn't Know/Doesn't Care

When he speaks of her
there is no mercy or pity
It's scorn, but I see there
a slight wincing in his eyes
as if inhalation reminds him
of old wounds she gave
His remarks flow quickly
without consideration
He leaves no indication
that he knows they'd offend
But he's forgotten
that her broken body
has laid waste to her mind
Cleansing her of humanity,
of reasoning, or logic
And instead, he tells himself
the fault is hers alone,
because that gift he gave me,
that stoic righteousness,
that self-damaging pride,
tells him to deny his failures
But he doesn't know
about her limitations,
her stunting conditions,
because she still cares
and wouldn't mention them
For fear they'd annoy him
and she wants none of it
She wishes him and his well,
hoping he'll take care
of himself and get healthy
Loving his children
as much as her own
But he doesn't care
and he'll be sorry
when He claims her

Ann Druyan on her husband's death...

“When my husband died, because he was so famous & known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me — it still sometimes happens — & ask me if Carl changed at the end & converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again. Carl faced his death with unflagging courage & never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don’t ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief & precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive & we were together was miraculous — not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That pure chance could be so generous & so kind… That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space & the immensity of time… That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me & it’s much more meaningful…

The way he treated me & the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other & our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don’t think I’ll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful.“

-Ann Druyan

Belly of the Beast

The room itself was alive last night,
the music made an organism of it
Inhaling the energy of the occupants,
and bellowing it back in exhalation,
leaving them breathless and gasping

Smiling, reaching, stomping for life,
and linking arms with new, old friends
Men and women alike, absorbed,
clapping heels upon the floorboards
Sliding upon a sea of liquored slick,
and careening like drunken tops

Blood flew harshly through
oiled veins and sweating arteries
Throats burning and stomachs
clenched in cramping agony
It wasn't enough to arrest motion,
because each of them craved it

It was the belly of the beast;
expansive bubbling to the brim

Last night, movement meant life

Songbird

Today felt the same as then,
when we held no judgements
You for me and me for you,
as when we shared the path
Strolling to the rhythm
of those cheerful chirps
But I slew that songbird
for all the lies it sang to us,
and you said it was premature
for you still believed them
It's refreshing to know
you listen to it no longer
Closed your eyes, and
ground your foot forward
And for that, today, it felt good
It felt like friendship again,
and I'm grateful

Seen the Sea

His eyes squinted, wrinkled
at the sound of his voice
What he had to say was sour
and his face didn't lie
Said, "Boy, you've seen oceans,
but you haven't seen the sea."
Of course, they're one in the same,
but it was the context
that separated the terms
I took what I could from it,
which wasn't too much at the time
I thought I was eyeballs deep in it,
but time told me it wasn't true
And now, twenty years behind me,
I see, I'm in the midst of the sea
Drawing in and cutting down
upon my naked ankles
Yes, I see the sea,
I feel her even now

Montezuma's Castle

I remember the wind in my hair
Barreling down the blacktop,
windows down and sunroof back
When I whispered in your ear,
a coachwhip coiled in my pocket
And the smell of dampened leaves
decaying in the Chiricahuas
The mist upon my cheeks
as I wandered alone there,
among those ancient bones

You said we'd make it
to Montezuma's castle,
but we never did


I couldn't forget that trip
Some times I certainly tried
After you left us for Texas,
it was betrayal on the tongue
In hindsight, you were only
seeking your own preservation
And who could blame you?
My own instinct was obscured
beneath layers of scar tissue
and lies from her mouth,
concocted in that feeble mind
Or I'd have done the same

It just took more
for me to come around
If I sat across from you now
I'd apologize for time lost
But I'm not there now,
and Papa says you've aged,
with new ailments to tend

I shouldn't worry, though
My gut says I'll see you again,
perhaps where we never were
Maybe we'll make it this time

Dear,

You've done so much
Always the sole provider
For that I'm grateful

It's business as usual here
Everyone's doing what
they were hired to do
Well, all but me
In hindsight,
had you been honest
at that crossroads
I would have chosen
the other path
That is, of course,
had I known I was to do
your dirty work
and theirs too,
I would have declined

Now it's useless
you led me on long enough
to ensure my investment,
knowing me well enough
to consider my pride
and it's obsidian edge
You know where I got it,
that time you handed it over
All my life reminding me
about the value
of a man's word

But what about
how you said you'd
put a ring on my right hand
when I turned eighteen
That doesn't follow
I'm twenty now
My fingers remain
without ornament,
and their sizes have changed
You know I understand
You're just so busy
It's all deadlines and promises
The broken, the honored
But you took the time
for your first-born daughter
and your beautiful wife
More than once for each
I just never topped the list
No use beating myself up
Not anymore, at least
It took me a while
to learn that

I wonder if you'd ever
sleep in a trailer
I wonder if you ever
thought about that
Surely, your self-proclaimed
selflessness would suggest so
I wonder if you considered it
when you accused me
of taking your money
Though I never asked for more
than what you owed me
What you said you owed me, even
And last I recall,
you've never paid my rent
Not even hearing a vowel
about tuition or books

I'd write more,
but there's no time
So anyway,
here's to store manager,
right-hand man,
and lowest paid employee
I wish you the best of luck
I mean that,
all the luck in the world
You'll just have to do it
without me

- Sincerely, R. Blodgett

She Wolf

When the sun caught her eye
he felt he'd ensnared a she wolf
That deep, molten amber iris,
twice freckled, and honest
His blood fermented,
and he was drunk
just to match them
with those tired shades of blue
This was unmistakable:
She walked alongside him, and
it was the best he'd ever done

Make Sure to Tell Her

She had waited up for them
Seated on the couch,
ears tuned for the sound
of footfalls on the porch
or the clatter of keys
But they appeared late,
finding her asleep there

Her eyes opening laboriously
and the delight in them
when she saw her son's love
was something he'd remember
The embrace that followed
affirmed his apprehensions
Her desperation he could feel
from his fingertips, in his blood
the same as hers,
and it quieted his hopes

I wish I knew how to help
but it seems she's beyond it
and that's a harsh judgement
for a woman already cast asunder
Papa says I should keep an eye,
make sure to tell her I love her
But God knows,
he ran too

Philip Roth

Those around her noticed it
in her removed mannerisms
This she considered often:
she wasn't whole anymore
Thought she needed someone new
to balance the equation
A beautiful face to see
right through her old damages
Truly it was her own mind
that had really betrayed her
She was whole from the outset,
it was the love that fractured

Forest Runner (edit)

He ran, for he could not
bear to move gently there
He had something within
hurling him forward at
a pace unmatchable

Proud, he tried regardless

All there was, urgency
Bending the forest's limbs
brutalizing others
At sporadic moments
leaping down the hillside
to slide upon the leaves
No destination known,
just pursuing a void

Water forced from the clouds
came down upon the earth
Bits of forest matter
adhering to his skin
His hair ensnaring twigs
Mud, leaves, moss, and lichen

Their decomposition

He could smell its richness,
and ever so slightly,
tasted it on his tongue
He wanted to become
some small part of it all,
absorb it through his pores
until he would rupture,
unfurling in a spout
heaving fungal decay

Got the Best

I've heard it said
"It got the best of him"
Like he inhaled it,
an involuntary invitation,
some curse called down
Entering through the nostrils
to entrench itself
A fine film of vaporous oil
coating the bronchial trees
Or "it got the best of her"
Gathered her idiosyncrasies,
the gestures only you notice,
and placed them in a basket
to rot and go to waste
To ferment and oppose there,
still smelling so sweet
Well, I hear it said,
as if it's a bad thing
Still, the only thing I want
to get the best of me,
baby,
is you

Knowing

It was the gaze that gave her away. Eyes upon him in the forest. She saw him there, and he felt it all at once. Just before, his eyes passed over her form without immediate knowing. Dappled sunlight, cast shadows of leaves, her skin. The knowing caught up with him all at once and his legs stopped dead. His eyes rolled back over in a rush and she was there wearing the kind of curiosity bestowed by a secluded vantage. He half-expected her to turn and disappear into that foliate backdrop, but his knowing did not stir her.

Theirs

He concluded theirs
was of greater magnitude
Kept
in a vessel all its own,
apart from the rest
He thought holding it up
to compare it with the others,
did it no justice at all
To do so,
would be to cast a shadow,
to drown a nurturing light
No,
this was separate,
in a vessel all its own
Ornamental, yet functional
Bordered by copper and lead,
a chamber of ideal conditions
And there,
it incubated

Customers

Their eyes, somehow cavernous, blinked frequently - as if pleading. It was desperation there. Urgency too. Sometimes they'd just toss the substance on the glass, once a rich yellow of luxurious splendor, now tarnished grey or brown by the squalid environs they inhabited. They needed to trade it, so they could trade some more. Who knows where they slept? Somewhere you wouldn't. It'd put them in some heavy-limbed half sleep after that initial euphoric rush. Those first few seconds made it all worth it.

I can't decide. Conflicted all the time. There are fleeting moments of rage for their self indulgence and inconsideration. Most of the time it's pity.

Cormac

"They heard somewhere in that tenantless night a bell that tolled and ceased where no bell was and they rode out on the round dais of the earth which alone was dark and no light to it and which carried their figures and bore them up into the swarming stars so that they rode not under but among them and they rode at once jaunty and circumspect, like thieves newly loosed in that dark electric, like young thieves in a glowing orchard, loosely jacketed against the cold and ten thousand worlds for the choosing."