Today's poem
The poetry second prize of 2019's Keats-Shelley Prize is as follows. Very interested in poet's imagination to a period when gods leave there - mysterious time for anybody.
The poetry second prize of 2019's Keats-Shelley Prize is as follows. Very interested in poet's imagination to a period when gods leave there - mysterious time for anybody.
KANNAZUKI 神無月—THE MONTH THE GODS GO AWAY
by Tammy Armstrong
Because all the minor gods
and the ones with their slipping wigs
their clacking teeth and the many armed
cloven-hooved false-headed and false-tailed
have given up their shapes climbed down from their offices
and built wings to carry them off to damp caves and sea stacks
we’ve uncoupled from their shines and fiery dusts
for a little while though their clockwork still clitters through us
still managing our small bad thoughts
the dark unentered spaces we each contain undone at the springs.
and the ones with their slipping wigs
their clacking teeth and the many armed
cloven-hooved false-headed and false-tailed
have given up their shapes climbed down from their offices
and built wings to carry them off to damp caves and sea stacks
we’ve uncoupled from their shines and fiery dusts
for a little while though their clockwork still clitters through us
still managing our small bad thoughts
the dark unentered spaces we each contain undone at the springs.
But even without their flimsy attentions
their whatever-it-is that skies and drops shadow
we can still feel into the shapes of others
wading across rivers
or stand at the ledge of over-night sinkholes
wondering at the mouth of them
or guess which fields might burn off their blight
and which might keep star-shaped curlicued creatures
blind within their soily sockets of dark.
their whatever-it-is that skies and drops shadow
we can still feel into the shapes of others
wading across rivers
or stand at the ledge of over-night sinkholes
wondering at the mouth of them
or guess which fields might burn off their blight
and which might keep star-shaped curlicued creatures
blind within their soily sockets of dark.
Really, we are more like that friend of yours than we think
the one you saw that final time decades ago
leaving for elsewhere
shoeless temporarily godless
but pausing for a moment at the library’s threshold
inviting you to follow
him stepping out into the day’s glare-whiteness
and you still in your chair
watching his darkened soles turn into sunlight.
the one you saw that final time decades ago
leaving for elsewhere
shoeless temporarily godless
but pausing for a moment at the library’s threshold
inviting you to follow
him stepping out into the day’s glare-whiteness
and you still in your chair
watching his darkened soles turn into sunlight.
(ritual in KANNAZUKI 神無月)