![]() ![]() Note: I remember when traveling salesmen with their sample bags were a mainstay of small town American and the smaller mom and pop shops across the country. Posted in poetry | 12 Replies Last Stop For A Traveling Salesman When one writes poetry these ancient ghosts of time play havoc on our secular presumptions, and they will not lie still in that darkness like silent victims no, they return on those unlucky days – what the Athenians used to celebrate as Apophrades, or the return of the dead I take the word from the Athenian dismal or unlucky days upon which the dead returned to reinhabit the houses in which they had lived (Bloom). I think behind most of my poetry is this secular vision of Dante, but instead of visiting hell I’ve learned to visit our strange histories like some dark progenitor of the madness we’ve become… for me even if transcendence is a illusion its one deep seated in our cultural inheritance and one that will not go away willingly even for such a secularist as I. Reading obits and other things across the years one remembers so many stories of loss… obviously in this one I’m echoing that great poem by Dylan Thomas whose “Do not go gentle into that good night…” haunts its rhythms… so many of the dead wander in me I sometimes overhear things. Note: do not take the persona here as mine, I’m objectifying from thousands of miles of traveling across these great United States the unknown tribes of dead whose only sign that they existed are small white crosses that exist on the side of roads in memory from one end to the other of our country. Posted in poetry | Leave a reply Over The Green HedgeĪ salient darkness casting its cruel gaze – Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Maybe we need the darkness to see the light?įire-spangled emerald wings glitter down… ![]() ![]() Then fly away never to be seen are heard from again. Like butterflies in the sun, they last a day, Gossamer particles of something in excess of us.īut those other tribes seem so full of emptiness The one’s that softly sing and dance, elven kin To those shades among the deep green woods, Maybe she’s right and I should listen more The darkness suits me better, in its absenceĪ momentary quietus where Silence speaks to me. I never seem to know its face, charm and grace. I’m not much good at that, the light I mean. Now and long, still harbor ill-will toward usįor this dying earth, our dwelling and habitus. More susceptible to the influxion of fey – She tells me I should be full of laughter, not tears ![]()
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