Terpsichorean Oak

I've been working on this in short spurts for a while now, and consider it a fragment (possibly of a novel) at this point. I have a lot of ideas for where I want to take it, but am struggling with the transitions. It's not the way I usually write, and thus feels unnatural. I'd love any feedback on it.

Here goes:

They parked the sedan near a sleeping residence and ascended into the hills beyond. The two came here often in search of something that neither could define, nor entirely comprehend, only certain that it made each feel at one with the earth he knew. They moved along an animal trail by moonlight, without speaking - as if cautious to shelter some sacred state germinating in the air. It was an hour of steep uphill before reaching the crest, and they stood panting at the mouth of the meadow and peered down at the forested expanse below, to the valley beyond freckled by orange lamplight and stained by the blurred whites and reds of crowded motorways. They stepped into the buttress of a sprawling oak, and came to rest on a limb as the fog summited the mountains adjacent. It roiled down in gaseous waves from altitude and tumbled softly as falling plumes, layering in the delicately bowled plane of the city basin. Before long the lamplights were drowned, only vaguely apparent through the mist as waning orbs of distant neon, and each adolescent gave his best to ignore the white noise, manufacturing in his mind a time gone before their conception, or their father’s, or their father’s father’s.

“That oak, she’s a dancing lady,” the slighter observed from his perch, disrupting the silence with a measured quiver. And the greater saw her too, gnarled limbs careening somehow gracefully down the meadow’s slope like the tormented silhouette of a Degas dancer.

They dove from their perches, tumbling through the freshly dewed meadow, enveloped in the rich scent of oak decay and moist soil, joyful, and eager to see her closer. But their sentiments changed abruptly to find her foliage gone, replaced by parasitic constrictors in the charming guise of mistletoe and scallop-leaved sumac. Her branches creaked precariously under their weight, laboring to harbor their bodies, and equally affected, awash in the sensitivity which was cultivated in the cold and fog, a mood between them was conjured that bound their minds as one. The slighter remarked it ironic that she stood skeletal, wrecked by a yuletide novelty. That, in her frail state, she still carried them with her, and the burden they brought made her weaker still. The metaphor needn’t be extended into open air, for both recognized it.

Moved, vulnerable in the atmosphere, the greater spoke for first and last about his mother, and about the helplessness he felt for her. Five years removed from their courtship, she continued to pay the bill for a past lover’s telephone, and painstakingly manicured the showroom of his father’s business, despite his indifference to her sentiments and the divorce it incurred twelve years prior. She delusioned such acts of selflessness would grant her entry at the gates, or at least absolve her for the failures made in each past relation. She voiced good intentions, and they were sincere - she longed for the forgiving embrace, for the expansion of family and friendship, for the great swell of humility and thanks following the release of pride on both sides. She invested herself entirely in it, and yielded no return but isolation and confusion. But he knew the roots were deeper still. He knew, even if she did not, that in reality she concocted excuses, blaming circumstance more than once, constructing grandiose obstacles to disguise her fear of independence, and in her mind, if the burden of their company ultimately killed her, she might die a martyr.

The Sounder

I was on two knees,
hands grasping needles
of pine and silt, when
I saw the sun eclipsed
by a primordial silhouette
The sounder entire
had come to me -
boars, sows, and
striped progeny -
descending in numbers
towards the gorge,
and diverging around me
like a pierced rivulet
But the three behind
halted ten feet beyond
with eyes straining,
frantic to reveal me,
and footsteps unsure -
as if suddenly aware
of their penultimate
miscalculation
and pleading
for mercy

- Just another poem about boars. -

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