I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world,
to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')


These poems are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here.

29 September 2012

The Rain


The rain pours in, filling up gutters and drains, drenching the garden, slipping down the sides of the banks, overflowing the dam, its glassy surface covered with lilies and moonlit clouds.  Heavier, heavier, sheets of steady drumming, nothing left of space between the drops, only a wall of water pouring out of the sky.  Only a world of water, a moving blanket that covers it all, out there.  If we would walk in it, out there, it would not be a wall, finite, it would be a river in the air to have to keep moving through.

The whiteness of the sound.  Like torrents tumbling.  A waterfall of air, airy water, watery air.  Triumphant, transcendent, filling up the night.  Filling up the black beyond my window.  Filling up the silence out there with its one, wild, incessant noise.  Gurgling and dribbling, hissing and whispering, telling stories to itself about the things we do here and what we are.  The rain is only rain, knows only rain, itself, does not fathom me, does not understand who we are, what we do, does not like much the things it sees us do.  Rain is rain and whispers harsh disapproving remarks, mutters to itself, condemns. 

Rain is life for trees and birds, insects and earth, even for me.  It fills the tank, it fills the river.  It floods.  Not here — but it does flood.  Not here.  I tell my friend, and my children who live far — no, it isn't here, the flood.  We're safe, it's otherwhere.  It's over in the west, and south of here.  We're safe.  The rain mutters, mocks, coming down continuously.  The rain is silver, looks like mud, not clear.  It gets to the ground and spreads out in mud.  It gets to the ground and swells the rivers, spreads all over the land.  No, not here.  We're safe.  Please, let us be safe, we don't want a flood.  We want the drink of the earth, the soaking in, the good rain the birds love.

Afterwards they were all out singing, the rain that rang on Wellington Street when I was a child once.  Afterwards the garden hung with drops, and all the birds out in the light, singing.  Drips from pink roses, drips from bushes and leaves, tangles of thorns, water and birdsong falling all over pink roses, the sun just coming out.  It was not Wellington, it was Brisbane Street.  No matter ... all the gone gardens in the summers of my lost youth.  All the wintry rainy seasons.  The church bell chiming through rain.  I must go home again.  I'll never go home again.  It washes me away, the rain.  I can't go home again.  The rain came tumbling down.

Published in Secret Leopard. Paris, Alyscamps Press, 2005. (See sidebar.)

(A friend asked if she could read some of my prose poems online. So I thought I'd better post some. See also previous post.)


Submitted for dverse Open Link Night #85

23 comments:

  1. I am so glad I asked. Wow Rosemary!

    I felt this one to.

    Thank you,
    Delaina

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  2. You had me at lilies and moonlit clouds!

    And oh my god, what a beautiful ending. Rain, church bells ringing. not going home. but why? why? are we ever home? always the wise ones say.

    thank you for this stirring rendition of rain that knows only itself.

    xo

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    1. Thank you Jannie, for the spirited response!

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  3. all the gone gardens in the summers of my lost youth...nice i like that reveal at the end...my fav part of this is the second para...it so evocative the sound of rain to me and i could hear it in your words....really enjoyed that part...rain is so much and in so many different ways...smiles...

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  4. So wonderful the drips on the garden - this has a very vivid feel. k.

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  5. Rosemary, I do like how you have explored so many facets of rain! I am 'drenched' in your words. Smiles.

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  6. I could hear that wall of rain...thick, heavy, dense with no spaces in between, almost like a waterfall. There is so much here in your write...so much within those drops of rain...so beautifully put.

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  7. Wow - you sly thing - this is beautiful...why have I never read your prose poems before, I wonder... probably because I am an unobservant sloth ...

    http://aleapingelephant.blogspot.ca/2013/02/the-trees-stand-watch_26.html

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    1. No, dear, it's because I so seldom write any! :)

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  8. Thanks to everyone for the kind comments.Thrilled that you like it so much. :)

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  9. beautifully vibrant imagery here, used very, very effectively in your prose. An excellent piece. Thanks, enjoyed the read

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  10. Beautiful and evocative prose poetry here. Enjoyed it very much.

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  11. You say all the things that tumble 'round my head when it rains torrents here in Washington State. Have had a mild Winter this time but some years...well, you just want it to stop. Like this alot.

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    1. This is an old piece, but there has been a lot of rain recently where I live now, and I am so over it!

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  12. the poem has a momentum and rhythm like the rain

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