Hey, Mom! Talking to My Mother #372 - Writerly Wednesday - Azaleas - Two versions

Hey, Mom! Talking to My Mother #372 - Writerly Wednesday - Azaleas - Two versions

Hi Mom,

Quite a jump from discussion of murder and racism to love poems. But such is the random pleasures of the Sense of Doubt blog.

Hi Mom, how's it going where you are?

So, Mom, I was told by one of my readers not to be so hard on myself and my writing. So I am trying something different. Instead of harping on the flaws in my poetry, here's two versions: the original version of this poem and the rewrite. I am sharing the rewrite first with the original to follow because, obviously, I think the rewrite is better. Actually, I should add today's date to the rewrite because I did make some tweaks to the way the revised version is edited and I did change a phrasing.

And so, here we are.

Welcome to Wednesday.

VERSION TWO

I PLANT AZALEAS IN YOUR HEART.

In this world of dreams, I dance in the twilight of a thousand generations.

Your fingers bloom fields of wild flowers on my body, like cities, arching skyward.

I sing down August rain,  unsnarl hopeless scribbles,
that keep me wandering deserted back roads, which I know down in my bones.

Deep in dream land, I am a bush on fire.

I am a hunter, weaponless, crouching, not moving, watching animals sleep in the forest.

I collect acorns in small piles marking my lairs.

In these dream lands, you find me.

The bathtub croons; the twilight smolders in our fingernails;
the snow tells lies, and forgotten souls crowd our homes.

Here, we dance under fruit trees, and suck on the hems of our clothes.

We spin through a night frantic with our lust and drunk on our blood.

-- christopher tower
(9602.16 9:54)

VERSION ONE (the original before rewrite)

I PLANT AZALEAS IN YOUR HEART.
I dance in the twilight
of a thousand generations
in this world of dreams.

Your fingers bloom fields
of wildflowers on my body,
like cities, arching skyward.

I sing down April rain,
unsnarl hopeless scribbles,
and I educe the answer
to the feral mysteries
which keep me wandering
through deserted backroads,
which my body knows in the bone.

I am a bush on fire overlooking
a valley choked with the souls
of forgotten lives;
I am a hunter without a weapon
crouching motionless in a forest,
watching animals sleep.

I collect acorns in small piles,
marking my lairs.

In these dream lands,
you find me.

Here, in this chimerical place,
the bathtub croons;
the twilight smolders
in our fingernails;
the snow tells lies,
and forgotten souls crowd our homes.

Here, we dance under fruit trees,
and suck on the hems of our clothes.

We clothe each other in dreams spilling
from our sleep;
these huge dream shawls
blanket us;
we spin through a night
frantic with our lust
and drunk on our blood.

-- christopher tower
(8908.02)
(re: 9308.01 18:38)

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Reflect and connect.

Have someone give you a kiss, and tell you that I love you.

I miss you so very much, Mom.

Talk to you tomorrow, Mom.

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- Days ago = 374 days ago

- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 1607.13 - 10:10

NOTE on time: When I post late, I had been posting at 7:10 a.m. because Google is on Pacific Time, and so this is really 10:10 EDT. However, it still shows up on the blog in Pacific time. So, I am going to start posting at 10:10 a.m. Pacific time, intending this to be 10:10 Eastern time. I know this only matters to me, and to you, Mom. But I am not going back and changing all the 7:10 a.m. times. But I will run this note for a while. Mom, you know that I am posting at 10:10 a.m. often because this is the time of your death.