Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Written in 2001 or 2002 (can't remember... old piece, rather long)
________

I followed paths until I came
to walls without a face or name;
confronted by a hollow vow
and yet I knew not when or how
I got entwined in smoke's grenade;
a chasm dark with sanguine shade.

I stand, encompassed by the blood -
intrepid chest ripped open, rudd
and wrath for naught, surrounding me.
I'm lost! I scream my fervent plea.

The silence answers once and then
again, without a trace of peace within.

I'm lost!
I mouth the words
and watch the empty void succumb
to canvas blank with echoes
twisted twice within the
balance of the numb
and void which rattles though my ears.

I'm lost!
I scream to ghosts who
laugh aloud at sordid ache and tears.

Who put me here? I hear my voice relay.
Who took me from Act II and framed this play
with shadows livid by a drape?
Pray tell, how shall I soon escape this
dank and dismal portal where I stand?
Dear Lord, how ever did I end up blind
within this barren space surrounded by a tomb?
I look around and yet I see no windows in this room.

The winds of time swift whisper past my head
with notes of terror amplified by lies.
If but I knew my spirit were now dead,
I'd sleep 'til death devours my languid sighs.

This was your choice, the voice it rings
within my inner ear it sings.
This was your choice, it soon repeats,
the turmoiled notion twice entreats.

And just as quickly as I had arrived without a clue
of role or lines,
an entity not recognized
wraps 'round my skin and eyes
and intertwines my heart,
so festered scorned.

This was your choice, it echoes
through the night until the morn
becomes my bed.
The wind, it pounds, and smites me
in the head and down I go through
winding tunnels, triplicated,
tossed into a fire.

And here I burn
and watch my blistered skin
coil 'round me like a spire.
My pulse is quickened blurred by truth
of wrath and rancid ire.

My body's bathed with flame.
I look upon it while it burns and wonder
who's to blame.

This was your choice, the voice soon haunts again.
This was your choice, it echoes in my ear.
I look down to my feet and see
that I'm still standing here.

I laugh aloud! Aha!
I now proclaim!
I've made this place myself!
This place of Sheol's a province I did name!

No sooner than I spoke those words,
the flame was quelled and ceased!

The windows opened wide and Hell
was sucked into a nether space and
disappeared with fast release
and there I stood, alone in peace
awakened from my tomb.

I followed paths until I came
to walls without a face or name
then found myself alone with
distant mirrors of my fate.

I was entwined in smoke's grenade;
but this, a place I did create!
The fire was quenched for my escape
I hold on tight, indemnity within.
A psalm of praise exudes from cooling skin.

I think it is important that you let it out
come hell or high water. That you put it
into your verse, for better or worse.
Keeping it in, is like a curse, poetry
is about pain and finding a voice for it, a path.
it is also about pleasure and how you measure it.
Maybe the way to dig for the treasure of it.Word.

Thanks for reading and for your rhyming comments, Craig.

Purely fictional, this piece was only based on the meaning of the word "purgatory." So, I wasn't "letting it out," just writing fictional poetry.

Not being Catholic, I don't believe in such a place. I have no idea if there's an afterlife or not, but if there is one, I wouldn't think there would be such a place as purgatory, but it was an interesting concept to explore. I find the concept of purgatory (being an in-between place) to be intriguing.

I do believe that people create their own heaven or hell right here during their waking in-the-body lives, though they might not be aware of it.

The purpose of the piece was to employ meter, rhythm, and imagery, using a somewhat archaic structure of poetry which might lend itself to be read aloud.

Well I do all that too, but I'm still letting it happen, as it comes
it is not purely a exercise in rhyme and word play, on concepts
such as religious symbolism. What I mean is that it is not only
intellectual, it is an ongoing experiment with feelings, and
how I am relating to philosophical concepts and hidden
knowledge, somewhere in between, call it a state of mind
in various states of being.

Oh, OK. I see what you mean about "letting it out" ... letting out the words and phrasings and poetic examination of topics. I appreciate that you heard a flow in it and a voice.

I don't know what I said that caused you to roll your eyes, but whatever it was, I'm sorry.

Yes, you always get a flow established and "let it out" very well. As you know, I've been a long-time fan of your work.

And no, I didn't mean this was just an exercise in rhyme and wordplay. I hope it's much more than that! .... exploring the concept of purgatory being the central examination and also how the poem tumbles to the fact that we all create our own lives and our own situations. It's sorta too deep, I think.

Thanks again!

I once saw Bukowski roll his eyes a few feet away.
And then he got up and walked into the auditorium
and proceeded to read his poetry to a large audience.
I guess he was more use to smaller groups of people
in more intimate settings...

From the first lines here I picture a "soldier's lament"-- caught in sudden, violent madness, with no real frame of reference or underpinning to it, and the scream to ghosts who laugh out loud at this ache seems an echo the madness, knowingly, long after the fact.

As for purgatory itself, not sure what that means, and yes, people do create heaven and hell right here on earth in their minds. No doubt about that.

I like the notion a windowless room, trapped with your thoughts, unsure how or why you are here....unsure of your sins, yet made aware that this was all your own doing....rather terrifying actually.....the halfway house for the nearly holy ?....given a chance to atone ?

raised Catholic, I was forced to make up sins for confession, because i knew the priest behind the curtain ( the Great and powerful OZ ) was not going to buy my story that i was living a moral life for an 8 year old ( for God's Sake )

nicely crafted with great imagery and mystery...oh my...those voices, those voices

...I had nasty thoughts of naked girls...I lied to my mom and dad....I stole a candy bar

exactly rabbit !

Love the "Great and powerful OZ" analogy ...

a look behind the screen......took me a couple a sittings to read it all....lol....just kiddin

Just the idea of Purgatory used to scare the shit out of me when I was a kid. Catholic upbringing was all about blackmail, at least that's what it seemed like. Not complaining, just had a profound influence on how I think today. Me and God talk all the time even now. It's a bit one-sided. Sometimes He shouts but I still can't hear him. I want to, his mouth moves, but there's no sound. Lip reading isn't my strong suit. Often, he just laughs and tells me to do what I want…go ahead, so how far it gets you. So I do, but I'm always looking over my shoulder…just in case. My dad said he saw him once. I asked him what he looked like. Dad told me he looked just like his father (his dad died when my dad was eleven) and he only had one picture of him…sitting on his outside steps in Minneapolis, so I thought, that's God? No way….but who am I to say he was wrong. The picture was black-and-white and blurry so…maybe. At the time, I just nodded my head and said, "sure…whatever you say." And then he died.