Post by bluemaydie on Aug 5, 2008 21:42:30 GMT -5
...I'll throw this out for consideration. This piece kind of "wrote itself," and I'm having trouble looking at it clearly for revision. Fresh eyes would be an immense help; hack away.
Untitled
The highway's laid out straight ahead of you,
and when the suburbs end the green begins.
Horizon fills your eyes, then guard rails, lines
in white and yellow. Trees just crowd around
the edges of your sight—until this thing,
a mass of leaves, its tendrils reaching out,
comes lurching into view, wild-surging out
of the monotony of trees. A shapeless hulk,
it has no form but chaos 'til you see,
beneath the blurring vines, a silhouette
that you would swear was once the mighty oak.
And then with highway-speed it falls behind
to wave its limbs in impotence for you.
You shudder at the sight—poor tree!—then sigh.
You're safe: the grapevine wasn't fast enough.
And yet. And yet.
You check the rearview mirror; is it gone?
It's still in sight; pale backs of leaves stand out
against a darker green and fade to sky.
It waves you back—or on?—and when you turn
your head you see its ghost, trick-retina'd
and thrown ahead to haunt oncoming trees.
“Run! Run!” you want to shout (you'd feel a fool),
“It's coming!” Bark-brown faces wrinkle back:
“Of course it's coming (oh, poor dear—the heat,
you know—oppressive); grapevine comes.
It swarms up trunks to swallow branch and leaf.
It is the nature of the vine; devour
is what it does. And it's our nature, too,
to stand and be devoured in vine or fire,
in drought or flood. It's simply what we are.
We stand. (And running's so undignified;
you really ought to stop the car and rest—
you'd feel much better—no? Ah, well, goodbye.)”
You speed on past; at sixty-seven miles
an hour it seems you're worlds away before
another monster grapevine hoves in view.
Another oak? a shrub? a shack? a horse?
God knows what once lay at the heart of it;
there's nothing there but stiffened vines, which once
were small enough to sprout between the roots
of what-it-was. In growing, friendly-like,
they wrapped their little arms around his trunk
and nudged his roots aside to settle in,
then sucked the water out from under him,
and when he cracked they tore the cracks out wide;
they wedged their loving arms into his heart
and hardened there and thickened, and he split.
He stands there still, you know as you drive past,
a prop for grapevines, withered in himself
yet verdant, rich with better fruit than acorns.
It wouldn't be so hard to turn the car;
that power-steering's great for change-of-plans.
Your pocket-knife, you think, should be enough
to slash away the vines and see the tree.
To rescue it? Could there be fragments still
with ichor in their veins? Dig up some dirt
and use your Kleenex box to make a pot.
That Coke'll do as well as water: plant
the slivered tree and hit the road again.
An oak might like to feel the wind rush past.
And what a sight—an oak tree on the move!
With you! With you. Some things were meant to stand.
You shake your head and ease your grip; the blood
runs back into your fingers on the wheel.
Some music would be nice. You turn a knob
and feebly laugh as “Desperado” plays.
Oh, sure, you shrug it off. Your near escape
was not so death-defiant. But you know
you'll dream in tangled vines tonight.
And when you stop for supper, it's nowhere,
it's just a mom-and-pop Italian place
with dirty tablecloths and this old man
who might as well have roots, he moves so slowly.
And dinner takes forever, but there's wine.
(If wine in age has value, this one's doubles
in just the time it takes to reach your table.)
You hold the glass to watch the candle's glow
cut through the crushed and offered grapes this man
brought from his cellar. Then you raise it high
and make a silent toast to those who stay.
Untitled
The highway's laid out straight ahead of you,
and when the suburbs end the green begins.
Horizon fills your eyes, then guard rails, lines
in white and yellow. Trees just crowd around
the edges of your sight—until this thing,
a mass of leaves, its tendrils reaching out,
comes lurching into view, wild-surging out
of the monotony of trees. A shapeless hulk,
it has no form but chaos 'til you see,
beneath the blurring vines, a silhouette
that you would swear was once the mighty oak.
And then with highway-speed it falls behind
to wave its limbs in impotence for you.
You shudder at the sight—poor tree!—then sigh.
You're safe: the grapevine wasn't fast enough.
And yet. And yet.
You check the rearview mirror; is it gone?
It's still in sight; pale backs of leaves stand out
against a darker green and fade to sky.
It waves you back—or on?—and when you turn
your head you see its ghost, trick-retina'd
and thrown ahead to haunt oncoming trees.
“Run! Run!” you want to shout (you'd feel a fool),
“It's coming!” Bark-brown faces wrinkle back:
“Of course it's coming (oh, poor dear—the heat,
you know—oppressive); grapevine comes.
It swarms up trunks to swallow branch and leaf.
It is the nature of the vine; devour
is what it does. And it's our nature, too,
to stand and be devoured in vine or fire,
in drought or flood. It's simply what we are.
We stand. (And running's so undignified;
you really ought to stop the car and rest—
you'd feel much better—no? Ah, well, goodbye.)”
You speed on past; at sixty-seven miles
an hour it seems you're worlds away before
another monster grapevine hoves in view.
Another oak? a shrub? a shack? a horse?
God knows what once lay at the heart of it;
there's nothing there but stiffened vines, which once
were small enough to sprout between the roots
of what-it-was. In growing, friendly-like,
they wrapped their little arms around his trunk
and nudged his roots aside to settle in,
then sucked the water out from under him,
and when he cracked they tore the cracks out wide;
they wedged their loving arms into his heart
and hardened there and thickened, and he split.
He stands there still, you know as you drive past,
a prop for grapevines, withered in himself
yet verdant, rich with better fruit than acorns.
It wouldn't be so hard to turn the car;
that power-steering's great for change-of-plans.
Your pocket-knife, you think, should be enough
to slash away the vines and see the tree.
To rescue it? Could there be fragments still
with ichor in their veins? Dig up some dirt
and use your Kleenex box to make a pot.
That Coke'll do as well as water: plant
the slivered tree and hit the road again.
An oak might like to feel the wind rush past.
And what a sight—an oak tree on the move!
With you! With you. Some things were meant to stand.
You shake your head and ease your grip; the blood
runs back into your fingers on the wheel.
Some music would be nice. You turn a knob
and feebly laugh as “Desperado” plays.
Oh, sure, you shrug it off. Your near escape
was not so death-defiant. But you know
you'll dream in tangled vines tonight.
And when you stop for supper, it's nowhere,
it's just a mom-and-pop Italian place
with dirty tablecloths and this old man
who might as well have roots, he moves so slowly.
And dinner takes forever, but there's wine.
(If wine in age has value, this one's doubles
in just the time it takes to reach your table.)
You hold the glass to watch the candle's glow
cut through the crushed and offered grapes this man
brought from his cellar. Then you raise it high
and make a silent toast to those who stay.
