Passed Through the Fires

in poetry •  9 months ago

Passed through the fires unknowing this the heat

Unanswerable; the conflict and confusions matter

Nothing, smoulder inexplicably. All cautions,

Alarms, stand unapplied, no needs-for felt,

For basement footing, handles, steering bars

Might counterweight, reduce downgrade the consternation

Misplaced before the fact

Hardly act one begun and we yet very young

Are running in the green fuse all day long; our salad days

Fern hills where wears a patent powerful intimation

Figured, imbibed, envisaging what vintage

Of fruits; what inclines nimbly sprint one’s thought-meadows?

Wide-eyed surveyings stemmed by late betrayings

Of coming latter ages entering uncommended

By majority bears discovery a wandering wide

Down shore among full shoals of dear fraternities

Comforting level landscapes, ambled paces, clement weather,

Whether or not one’s face, one’s forced good temper, fits

Pitted and pitied in one loose reckless game

Of restless ardour, serving hot, stirring endeavours

Beyond, within the mind

Thus fire by fire creates its light, flares conflagrations raised

Drawing up all inside them, set to sear with high redoubt

All aim at object. Listless subjects walk the barefoot coals

Hoppers pour hopes out, aspirations; ventured vapours vowed

Dispelling all temerity; and gone’s concession, just one’s wits’ estate

Rattling an iron gate

A cinder, or an ember, something shrivelled, atrophied,

Smouldering half-spent curled easily like a scimitar

Rough dry reduced remainder of no flame outrunning

All but in dreams expended,

Salted to suit the proffered expectations

Tinctured on truth to activate with passion;

As raw as sore

Every way suffers compromise, and oneself the tempter,

Victim and instigator, opponent and defence,

Caught in a vice of body-pinching gripes and pines

Reaching beyond all mortal test, bequeathing little

Finely enough that workmen warrant it well-done;

Willing, but evil is fishing wiles to sell and soil integrity

Foreclosing against the grain

In-passing, whilst walking Purgatory, see one’s neighbour, tip one’s hat,

Greeting good-day, making a threadbare goodfellow salute

Scraped of nice quips once clever, flashy; of acute endeavours

Looking hand-plucked now, like a prepared chicken,

Roast in intemperate fires, a serving on a platter

Bearing of patient hecatomb, a scented savour, fat oblation;

One’s recompense trusts ploughed-in, late wagers on close of play,

Attest combustion


You can also find this poem at our metanomalies blog: http://metanomalies.com/passed-through-the-fires/

This poem can be found at my linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/passed-through-fires-matthew-raymer?trk=v-feed&lipi=urn%3Ali%3Apage%3Ad_flagship3_feed%3BqdNv70c2v1Px8PyzsoKYGg%3D%3D

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