Seasons and Spirits

RiverNotch

RiverNotch

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SEASONS AND SPIRITS: A short album of poetry, by Jed Castillo (aka RiverNotch)

Most of these works can be found in my other poetry showcase, but in their unfinished forms (as per the other thread's introductory note, that showcase has become a General Dumping Ground for my poop. If this were an art museum, this thread would be the gallery, as that thread would be the archives) -- that is, barring "Golden Apples" and "The Wandering Dream to the Waking Man", both of which are still undergoing major revision. Well, technically, all of these are (I'll drop by occasionally to make a few small changes when I see the need) but, in general, all of these can be considered complete.


CONTENTS:

1 - Seasons and Spirits
2 - Postcards I
3 - Browsing through the Blue
4 - Night Terrors
5 - The Wandering Dream to the Waking Man
6 - Golden Apples
7 - Fertility Rituals / The Concert
8 - Postcards II
9 - Olive Tree
10 - Supernova
 
SEASONS AND SPIRITS

I can feel the heat of summer swinging
with your every humid whisper.
Writhing on your ruddy temples
are my fingers, greedy wine-stained serpents.

Smells of freshly-drafted cider
ripple from your noble dimples.
Bothering spirits born of autumn's bite
follow this scent to steal our love away.

Blossoming flames and heady beer
refill your shriveled bosom with hot blood.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
conquers the silver blind beyond.

Flowers are blooming on your skin again:
your vernal musk, your honey's wax, returns.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
dreaming sweetly in our cellar.​
 
POSTCARDS I


PAIR OF SHOES

To move forward –
left in front, right behind,
right in front, left behind –
is to be apart.


SAD OLD MEN

drifting down
streets of stone
all cracked and cold

looking for love
when old loves are dead
and new loves leave the birthing beds


DYING WOMAN

barren fields –
green skin choking
gilded youth

fetid blossoms –
hollow eyes hiding
under storms

black breeze –
shallow whispers stealing
life from her lips​
 
BROWSING THROUGH THE BLUE

Someday, my wall
will be filled not with baby butt-faces
or future models striking poses
but with sickness.

Someday, my wall
will be filled not with pictures of yummy cake
or memetically calculated heartbreak
but with sorrow.

Someday, my wall
will be filled not with doodled-out distraction
or silly slogans for inspiration
but with silence.

Someday, my wall
will be filled not with the stench of a wild night
or empty promises of morning light
but with sleep.​
 
NIGHT TERRORS

The air is always flat this time of night,
flat and cold and quiet, like the lake outside
in wintertime. I slow my breathing down:
I don't want to break the ice.

When I sleep, I never turn off my light,
a sun lamp. Why does no one let me walk outside?
There, the twisted trunks of oak never shift,
unlike the shadows of my bed.

Like the shadows of my bed, the wilderness at night
is home to creatures fanged and clawed. But outside,
at least, the horrors are familiar, while my bed-sheets
shelter only water.

I've been swallowed whole before. I remember light,
cold moonlight, breaking through the winter ice outside,
filling my lungs, choking me. Then, I was pulled up
by the rooster's crow.​
 
THE WANDERING DREAM TO THE WAKING MAN

Through roads paved with the corpses of friends,
we left the black wilderness behind
for a little township rising
by the river Lethe, the river
of oblivion. Here we are.
On this long journey,
you were the stone on which
my flames of passion bloomed,
guarding my olive-halls from the hot hands
of my temper, my lust.
Steady companion, you always scouted
down three-headed roads and returned
with a map and lamp in hand,
and, when the victories of the road
came upon us, you twined
your tender voice around
my paeans in perfect harmony.

But you can share my load no longer
and all your dreaming days are done.
You miss your waking home's beloved light,
where your eyes shine brighter than the stars
and your tender frame is ever cradled
by the rosy hands of dawn.
And my two feet can never stop:
my soles are full of holes, never-healing ulcers
carved by the gadfly's knife,
and filled by the hands of greedy time
with the sharp stones along the Lethe's banks.
Their only cure, a gift of nectar and ambrosia
found far in the east, on the other side of the world,
beyond exotic lands of men, beyond the coasts,
beyond even the beard of the old man of the sea.

So now, I leave you waiting at the township's docks,
waiting for a well-tarred ship of horn
adorned with flowers,
with asphodels and poppies
and hyacinths and adonis,
flowers of love and death.
I give you three golden gifts
for the long journey ahead:
three tender kisses firmly planted
on your lips, flowing through your mouth,
your tongue, your throat, to your
heart. May they sustain you.

The grey ship arrives;
I can hear its brazen bells
ring to the songs of the sylphs
circling round its silken sail.
The time for you to pass away
and the time for me to be forgotten
comes. Goodbye, friend.​
 
GOLDEN APPLES​

The night before last winter fell,
I was pondering over an unwritten tale on my desk
when a gust of wind rattled our rooftop.
I stepped outside to see the damage, but instead
saw death speeding low over the town,
her cloak reeking of orange blossoms.

Curious, I gathered my book and pen,
and, after locking the door,
followed her course through the clouds.
The streets were empty that night,
as if all but I knew her business then,
and a soft dirge fell from the heavens
like a box being lowered into the grave.
So the thought came: was I her mark?

Filled with fear, I slowed my steps,
and quickened my pulse. But then,
a girl's scream shot through the silence
like the fateful first seedling of spring,
and I ran to the source, relieved, excited.

Near the town plaza, Mrs. Miller's son
had fallen from Judy Bennett's window
when a gust of wind pushed him off.
His scattered brains looked like a sower's mess.
Moments ago, he was busy comparing
Judy's blond hair to an orange's zest,
her ripe breasts to the oily rind,
and her moist cunt to the plump and juicy flesh.

A dutiful neighbor, I offered the girl
a few vain sympathies, then left
swiftly, as death did.
And when I reached my door, I found
that I had forgotten my key;
it wouldn't be until the dawn
that I would get back to my desk.
Lucky I'd brought my book and pen.
 
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FERTILITY RITUALS

bottle of wine
and soul from the radio –
a pear tree blooms

summer wait –
droplets of water
cling to their metal mother

tyrian sky –
the briny fisherman
hauls his heavy catch

crispy golden leaves
salt and apple flavored –
we jog before breakfast


THE CONCERT
​
The spotlights on the stage
are burning blue on blue.
Their eyes are set afire in this light.
My hand is loose –
the cold air stings me.

The spotlights on the stage
are glowing green and gold.
Their flaming eyes are smothered by the dark.
I squeeze your hand –
my hot sweat stings me.​
 
POSTCARDS II


MEMO

Good things coming.
Mailed the sales report to you
yesterday,
with six stamps because
it was urgent:
one of them cost me a dollar!


BIRTHDAY

Another day to menopause!
Another pound of fat!
More trash to add to your little
dump, your room!

But, best of all,
more love from all of us!


CONDOLENCES

I will be silent today.
All my air will be yours.
And if you need it, I'll leave you
honey cake

too, and just do other things.


APOLOGY

Beads of hair around my
neck:
my hair.
Scalp is now bare
and no eyebrows.​
 
OLIVE TREE

You are a young olive tree.
Your two thin arms
are two thin twigs,
bearing much fruit.

Your leaves are slender,
shaped like the fingers
of the hot sun.

Your trunk is sleek,
unspoiled by time,
leaning slightly to the wind.

Your roots are graceful,
flowing down the earth
like sea-waves.

Between two round knots
near your long roots,
a perfect hole sits.

Between two round knots
near your tall stems,
a perfect cleft sits.

I pluck sixteen olives
from these branches,
and press them for oil.

Sweet little fingers
slither from the mess
into my eager nose,
inflaming my heart.

I watch your white flowers
dance to the joyful song
of the west wind
as I spill, on your bare flesh,
libations of fine oil.

I whisper a prayer
into your crown of sun,
giving thanks to Aphrodite
for your fuel.
​
 
SUPERNOVA

Today, my navel outshines me,
for today, it is a dying star
huffing its desperate last breath.

The immense pressure of gravity's hands
ever-squeezing its fiery core
at last compounds its every facet
into a heavy hole in time.

Its shell of gas and light erupts
into a splendid rainbow of dust,
of carbon and oxygen and iron and nitrogen,
of water and earth and wind and flame,
of all the material elements.

And this great cloud of stardust scatters
beyond the world of my humble body,
beyond the womb of mother earth,
beyond the weirs across the heavens,
to continue their father's brilliant legacy
by filling the gaps of the puzzle of life.​
 
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