In the twee rainswept hours…
The poet dwells in a state he calls 'in-transmutable into words' where the spectre of unholy dreams and fears haunts him.
Below that rocky headland
known as the subconscious
dwells a state called
Intransmutable Into Words
It is out here
I sometimes find myself
as if spewed forth
from some unholy dream:
Forest of fears unrealized
Darkness without recourse to a heart
And I chance to wonder whether the cure
might not be worse than the disease
the alternative less fraught with
promises of indefatigable terror
As if such midnight hues could be kept at bay
by those oft-called the trappings of permanence
To know one’s cage, then love it is a secret
to be carried to one’s watery grave and beyond
Questions for Chronos
Despite appearances, nothing has changed ruminates the poet philosophically.
How to convince people, anyone,
of the superfluity that is time?
impart to them, dear Chronos
that despite mere appearance
nothing has really changed
for some time now...?
Because if you can get past
the vast compendia
those name and their
variously traumatized Psyche
you will see that we as a species
have been set on repeat for
a good fifteen thousand years now,
if not very possibly more
at least since staves were laid by
and an ill-advised forebear thought
How to leverage these wide open plains
into a backhoe and a handful of beans?
Absalom Cortes’s wanderlust carried him to the farthest-flung corners of the world. A love of language spurred him to document what he found there. These poems are drawn, in part, from that record. Absalom Cortes’s poetry has appeared in the online journal Rigorous.