Mortgaging Time Whatís an hour that they can take it just when spring renews all just when hope rouses sleepy from winterís best-laid plans Its that idiot ecstacy that giddy devil-may care-ness ††††† Do I dare? ††††† Do I dare? Then the slap! The shove! Oh, that can be tempered, yes you may have your spring but give us your first born your precious, your sense of it all. Give us your time.† Its only an hour. Here, we leave you to take and retake your measured days. Its only a borrow, like an overdue book We'll get it right back to you, swear it. When you've forgotten we have it, we will. Just when the days darken Moody, sullen and hope falls back fallow. You'll need it then, sure. See, here's another hour for you. There.
Cheryl L. Higgins's Questions:
I've ruminated about this for a year, now, and resurected it during my
annual sullen-ness over daylight savings time.† I suppose I'm grateful
for the extra hour of daylight at this time of year, but I am
increasingly resentful each spring of being jerked back by the
suspenders just when I am starting to come to life again, at a time of
year when daylight hours have become so precious to survival for me.
So, how does it read?† It lacks the timbre and rythm which it approaches
every few lines or so, and I get tripped up on it, but perhaps it reads
through ok to others?† Also, can you follow my quirky suspicions of
"them" against "me" in it...
Still Time Whirling and whirling the eons pass, collecting years from one moment to the next layer upon layer (so fine, so fine), as dust, which is nothing, adds up to be stone, somehow. Which is what time really is Where the measuring of it comes in is anyone's guess for who is to say when one hour has passed on to become the next? Some say a clock tells it, but truly who is to say when a moment is past and another has begun another when only the last bore us blithely into this one? And who is to say When something once was when only it just happened when the ether of it still swirls in the rooms of the house †††††† in the ruins of the house †††††† in the stones of the hearth †††††† in the filtered dust shafted through the thatch of the byre the scent of hay and dung (so faint, so faint) as to make you turn to see the reeve's mare's tai l switch from the corner of your eye When the scent of the moment comes back who is to say the moment never can for if I can smell the damp earth of spring as only a child who is but inches from it does who is to say that I am so far from this childhood as to not be a child now? Or, if I catch the spice of the sea which salts the air only of childhood summers or lather my hands with soap of a kind left in summer cottages long years ago, long years ago who is to say that I am so far from these things as to not be among them, still?
Cheryl L. Higgins's Questions:
I have to say that I love this poem, even if I wrote it myself - I love
the way it recites,† and I chant it, walking alone in the woods.† I have
my special phrasing, my pauses and places where the words rush a bit and
tumble over each other a mite, so when I come to it on the page I guess
I am necessarily a bit dissapointed, no, troubled, with the line
endings, which I am trying to use to impart the tone and give the right
word groupings the right attention.† Too close to it.† I would love some
feed back about line endings, how some of you might feel about its rythm
and any suggestions you might have about its lack of meter, whereas
orally, I hear some.† I have re-lined this thing a hunnerd times and
critical readers' considerations would be most welcome, now...