In-Between Red & Blue Poetry Potpourri Stephanie Pope mythopoetry.com


--In-Between Red & Blue ------------stephanie pope Photo taken in winter in Texas. The foliage on the tree is entirely that of the evergreen mistletoe. www.fs.fed.us/r6/ nr/fid/fidls/147.htm	Hackberry (Celtis sp.) heavily infected by P. tomentosum ssp.
For Greg, Maggie, David & Ric, and their feel for the image now
"Let it be done to her," said he and it grew in her like mistletoe grows in winter a parasite a grey winter white blanketing the tree but she was willing & she taught me that the night's white grew in her like mistletoe grows in-between the white snow the black branch the red din the blue ruffle just grows like the dream grew last night in me am i not like her just letting myself do what it wants and needs her to do knowing mostly its not about me at all while i know it knows the story better knows just what it gathers just now & takes what it wants & matters that into me & into how this night in me endures it—this night! (O holy night) i go grey and gray she grows heavy in divinity this disease and i think now of the cost and the worth in the story am i not like her maybe not not as certain i can bear it (or should) growing war civil old & blue in bark like a branch suddenly remembering where she, trunked and treed no longer peoples now in leaves and rust and must Elle at midnight, purpling in fear, i hear tick slick slurring long shadows against my back, the massive tangle shocks me wide in wake and panes dark the holocaust this dreams in sleep with me. It makes in me so unresolved in it and only god knows better than it in i this dream in mistletoe grown. What scars my skin these shades of bearing it winning & losing, bluing & greying the soul of what union? I’m bearing it not wanting to (but, it's not about me!) And so she lets my own despair closet me in the moss cloth neither me nor mine. Truly, i am guilty! (guilty of letting) this throw arms around me now red in certainties so shallow these chap in pillow-talk what spirits talk in sex sterile & clean & religiously right an impotence of image iced eternally sterile & immortally fertile; although even these insistences slip on my sill come midnight & daylight will in over-active pastel curl over the slips wrapping back around the pink dawn purpling slick the stick shadow these tick through that deadly hour while the parasite, heavy with what's already been done, holds me accountable now night slips further in-between what matters and what doesn’t i do not have what it takes god knows things play take away so easily with me & i do not like the words that are not like hers—not gifted in unsayables mine are not like hers they keep looking for the way to slip this hold of super-cold back into its envelope. Let the mail slipping-god slip god knows what in-between this confusa so pregnant in not wanting to until not wanting to, desire slips growing gray & grey in dream upon the silver darkness blessing it divinely blue in have of whiteness & still cloudy in words. The dream mattering clashes and smashes tick against tock no actual snow but a radiant overflow. The radiant white, now a blanket the small dark desires free upon dawn in early new bled light, shines night blue & through; the older fundament, a symbolism of colour how she burns night as if comfort hides inside the emanation, lives there outside the cold terror’s pretense of purity. We do not live beyond such havings nor live unfreed in such doublings the other this lives now—the thing in all these greatest things. It lives immanent beyond us an immortal gold that blue shades & red knights burning into whites the eternal, royal forms composed & composite & opposite O say—can you sing a quickening, par la vie the way mistletoe in thickening sleeves a branch where beauty eats beauty and where no tree warms in any morality such ritenesses the way its left me at morning so leafless & blue-treed, a crux fixation neither dark & servile nor whitened nor just, nor liberally sieved. The grand silver blues me new the yearless year radiant in white while the old season of mistletoe preferences in the same hour a flavor for the ancient parasite devouring its own soul's skin—and the haunted blood flows. It claims in wrongdoing what innocence lives no more morally superior than it lives thinned and dead this stick these shadows upon which the colours turn their heads three ways and live radiant & remote like a coat coating beyond the slippery, blue-grey silence what really lives wintered the way winter in certainty and din gets fed wintering white mid morning hints of green she was willing and she taught me & the night's white grew in her like mistletoe grows in-between the white snow the black branch the red din the blue ruffle and i think now of the cost and the worth in the story needing some kind of wonder without words some kind of living light behind the eyelid clothed & enclosed in those blue-grey folds of organ—hers that pleasure belonging soully to itself though living ever more remotely to the north of the northern most po(l)led

oem

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