Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Old Land

Robert Frost once said something about a poem usually starting as a lump in the throat, a profound sense of wrong, a deep homesickness, a crazy lovesicknessand he is right. This simple poem is, like others, a song of sorts for the many hearts in this world bearing the weight of costly experience. If you feel that weight, too, it is also for you.

Bonny Fleming : BonzEye

You are scarred 
and you wish that you were not.
You wish that you were young; fresh; arrogant and innocent 
in your confidence of what is to come.

You are scarred
and it is not a curse.
This jagged line of flesh seared and knotted
is not what traps you now.

That you have bled till the ground gave way
hardly means that you have little left to live on,
that your time has gone,
that now you only fade.

This scar holds a shattered continent together.
This scar is a landbridge over which enemies cross and make peace.
This scar is an ice age that shelters all your history.
This scar is a vein of gold in a mountain.

You are old,
you are old,
you are more alive
than they know.

I see your beauty
even as you sleep,
even as you rise
weary with the burden of use.

I watch this scar
give you language
when a new star is born in the night sky
or dies light years away.

It awakens your sight.
It pulses with gravity and flight.
It knows
who you are.

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