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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535691" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The LoRuhamah Poems - Her Death Discordant</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">for Judy Asher, killed at age 21</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These meditations/laments are set in <br>Appalachian mountains and towns of <br>North American Southern states, circa mid1960's</div><div style="margin:10px 0">[The name, LoRuhamah, means 'not loved']</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hosea 1: 6 - 'And she conceived again, and bare a daughter. <br>And God said unto him, Call her name LoRuhamah' for I will <br>no more have mercy on the house of Israel, but will utterly take <br>them away.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Part One</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O rue rue LaRue among the ginkgoes <br>cloven leaves all fallen whose burnished berries <br>yellow late melon sweetness of Autumn days</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O rue rue LaRue among the boxwoods<br>evergreen for no good phlox.<br>Blooded leaves settle upon golden flax of weeds<br>seeding the chilling ground receiving soundless<br>lips of grain enduring ice and ice again</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O rue rue LaRue amidst the sortilege<br>Coo of pigeons in the distant spired village<br>low of legion cattle turning toward evening millet<br>mow of fringing grain chafing toward winter silos </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O rue rue LaRue<br>Blue waters at a distance<br>blue the tails of otters<br>blue the eyelids of sleeping beasts<br>nested beneath the earth</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Distant crows sound the morning field beyond pasture<br>Dew murmurs names upon passing grasses<br>Echoing wood gold where below the stream's gash<br>furthers along slowly murdering dimensions of <br>width and depth</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Remembered gait of young ponies toward<br>the spring's sweet water</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Remembered laughter of the frail daughter there<br>beside the fields sweet grasses</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The daughter, as the water, passes into silence </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Laughter remembered beside the old well of the woods</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unearthing the old dwelling<br>found glass bottles<br>rusted ancient tins of talcum <br>utensils grimed which once fed mouths<br>a comb sadly saving some long<br>uncaressed and beloved white hair<br>a rusty chain for what purpose used<br>then discarded</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Overturning stones<br>reveals a child's gum <br>machine trinket ring</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O the lovely hand of the long grown daughter<br>remembered in the plastic ring hole full of dirt<br>caked jewel of childhood, innocent, cool<br>in this finder's keeping</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rest o daughter<br>slumber in the dark palm of the grave<br>We are slave to suffering<br>but the little ring you lost<br>or bitterly tossed away<br>when its small circle's promise<br>outgrew you<br>is here<br>in the sunlight again<br>in a stranger's hand <br>standing where the gate allowed <br>entrance to the once beautiful yard</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Brief the rediscovered<br>for all of us are soon <br>gone under the hill</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The ring dear lost dead thing<br>once human and frail will endure<br>beyond our bones.<br>It's promise is safe</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wish I knew your name, dear one</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O rue rue LaRue...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">3</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Spittle on the chin<br>stubble upon the cheek<br>she met her love beside the creek</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Turned in her sleep<br>the calling heat gathered<br>the steep bank in the wood </div><div style="margin:10px 0">then fell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">as water will</div><div style="margin:10px 0">forgetting the blood's </div><div style="margin:10px 0">first stain on the long discarded sheet</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A woman now she fled toward love</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and fed there but </div><div style="margin:10px 0">famished still</div><div style="margin:10px 0">died there...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">4</div><div style="margin:10px 0">...there that little greensward swath of green grass <br>and leaf and limb and tree in that little crook nook<br>of vale dark there and sky gimleted on each blade<br>and leaf hover myriad in air...</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Part Two</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Her death discordant...'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Birds must sing to keep from asphyxiating.' - Mircea Eliade</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1 </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then died there the rose beside the house of tin.<br>The track bore no train for years.<br>Weeds traveled tendriled and<br>yellow rooted between trestles.<br>Broken vessels whistled through<br>shattered teeth of glass.<br>Only wind and no rusted train passed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though the scene bears dislocation, <br>though the brain remembers station and motion<br>of steam engine and iron wheel rotation<br>the places of old gone passing<br>bear no malice toward stillness.<br>All around mute remains remind the<br>occasional passer of former days; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">an old snuff tin crumbled in a reverent hand<br>longs for the woman grasping then, <br>holds sweet dust beneath her tongue<br>as the land must hold her now where is<br>no whisper but sleep beyond sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Weeds to the eye are sad between rails<br>but listening to their green and yellow belles<br>the rightness of their swaying displaces all sorrow.<br>Their distance is a distance one cannot know<br>but only borrow in imagination by extension<br>of miles, their reach is ours then, translated<br>green and longing, their leaves throng the<br>evening air, in silent clamor fling down seed<br>to summer's blundering prayer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Discovering a small print of Degas' painting, <br>'The Singer In Green', on the day of her death, <br>sending it to her best friend, saying: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This reminds me of her, <br>her features, the beauty of implied song, <br>a tenderness, and sadness, <br>head tilted back in order to lift her voice, <br>crooked hand above breasts gesturing<br>in physical song, green light bathing<br>the mortal scene.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Was this not her <br>green with life, <br>woman prime, <br>taken into the vast green <br>of the earth during Spring? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She sings still.<br>In memory we hear the literal voice, <br>see her gesture, catch her fading laughter.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Go out into some silent space<br>of green world then. Sit. Listen.<br>Muted voices and motion are greater there<br>than any little pocket of earth that our<br>body or grave can hold.<br>She dies into the world which<br>is always alive <br>and Mystery.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So the singer has become the green light<br>which bathes her, her life signaling toward it, <br>her death become it which is greater music still.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be sad, as we will, but know <br>she is now where the Green is -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">in woods, <br>in the world, <br>in memory in<br>hearts and minds<br>we but borrow it while alive and return<br>to the Green source with our passing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">3</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O rue rue LaRue it's here</div><div style="margin:10px 0">this space between the gate and the lovely garden</div><div style="margin:10px 0">is here everywhere in the ring in the hand in the dirt</div><div style="margin:10px 0">within the hole of the ring in the breath flung in </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and out the grave house underneath</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the dirt's coolth and dank breath</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>thank the air and pass the leaves</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the hand of the digger becomes the tree</div><div style="margin:10px 0">becomes the sign upon which all breathing things</div><div style="margin:10px 0">shall hang language surpasses itself breaks</div><div style="margin:10px 0">upon its own weight like the empty shell of the beetle</div><div style="margin:10px 0">little is the frame we live within this tiny world </div><div style="margin:10px 0">the walk upon Vast the space it partakes of making</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the wave of the wind ripple in the mind and Mind</div><div style="margin:10px 0">turns to the dropp of rain the flaked paint of the</div><div style="margin:10px 0">barn side the vague window pane opening upon</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the eternal scene of stones breathing becoming bread</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the living the dead artifacts </div><div style="margin:10px 0">All</div><div style="margin:10px 0">4</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That green has grown.<br>Leaves have darkened<br>deepening shadow and hue of green<br>and so, imagining, walking through, <br>has her death.<br>I walk through that, too, <br>wonder how she fares, <br>silent lady of dirt<br>having lost at last<br>the hurting care of the world, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and we, green and growing, <br>curl above her dark place, <br>sure sometime of our grave<br>as sure as we are now of hers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">5</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Scattering wind over bending blades, <br>I grieve still her leaving, <br>feel its weight as I see scattered ones<br>on benches in the park, asleep, <br>one wretched man huddling where <br>a band of young musicians tune<br>their instruments for song.<br>Disparate images entwine -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">gone man, <br>gone band, <br>and her death discordant -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the living die<br>the dead somehow live<br>singing in the sometime green.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As green returns<br>so she will in silent memory, <br>in waves of wind<br>which is only wind.<br>We will change but not as she<br>so changed to every possibility of song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">6</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It appears to be ended<br>but as grass shows there is<br>a forming wisdom and the same, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Desire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fire in our house of living rages<br>and we cannot come out of our own accord.<br>The event of her going is a beckoning<br>to see the flame leaping so let's creep <br>toward the Green and be silent<br>but if we cannot be then let us be as she, <br>frail and tender, lifting voices up<br>in the greening shadow</div><div style="margin:10px 0">7.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dear one.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dear one. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They've mown the hill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The grass remains.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Modern scythe and sickle<br>felled the frailer blades but <br>stained their metals <br>green with your name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sun shines, <br>burns that hewn spot where I first<br>learned to love your passing, <br>where I watched your leaving <br>grow wild and lovely, <br>untamed beside the street, <br>learned to hear the quiet there<br>where now a cycle is begun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A new season of your death<br>is running rampant again to know <br>the blades of time and men.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">8</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Among oaks the fallen do not speak.<br>The dirt upon which they lay is hard.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hard earth.<br>Cold earth.<br>Need us here <br>spoken for nothing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We scratch our mouths<br>across the scar of land, <br>wait in the black sun, <br>pray to break apart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A bird with injured wing<br>sits among the yellow leaves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's wild hurt flays the sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535691" data-title="The LoRuhamah Poems - Her Death Discordant de Warren Falcon" data-description="for Judy Asher, killed at age 21

These meditations/laments are set in 
Appalachian mountains and towns of 
North American Southern states, circa mid1960's

[The name, LoRuhamah, means 'not loved']

Hosea 1: 6 - 'And she conceived again, and bare ..."></div>
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