Wednesday, August 25, 2010


antler bone found in the grass
speaks of lost deer rituals, their religion of seasons
and blood

dance of hoof and antler, horn and fur ruff
circle of apple trees full of bees
and the tender undying evergreens

horn-handed deer staff a dance ritual for young bucks
while old men sit blanket-wrapped watching
sweat-braced flanks they used to know

we rub our bodies with suet and red clay
we dance the deer in spring and autumn
becoming those bones found in the grass

edges of the field at dusk still full of bees
where deer stop to stare, then walk on
suddenly doubled with ghosts of the ancestors

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Blogger Jim Murdoch said...

Strange, if I came across antlers I’d think of a dead deer. There are times I wonder if I’m really a poet. And when I read of suet I image in the dumplings my mother used to make me as a child. I like the way you organised the piece on the page. No need to reformat to read.

4:51 AM  
Blogger Art Durkee said...

Organic form: Every poem tells how it wants to be structured. Some even look like prose-poems, sometimes. The more shamanic poems are even more insistent on how they want to be presented. It's wisest to listen to their wishes.

11:17 AM  

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