Dear crew of The Broken Binnacle,
Coming at you this time with another poem. Inspired by the April rainstorms currently hitting the Northern Virginia area, this poem flowed from the sound of rainwater falling from a gutter. It’s rather melancholic, but, at the moment, so is the weather. Be patient with me on this one, I’m trying my hand at a more modernist approach to poetry, so it’s not so much about the rhyme scheme as it is the creative thought-flow. However, I would like to say there’s still a structure to it. As always, any feedback is appreciated. I hope you enjoy!
In mysterio Verbi,
James
P.S., doing my best to get the other guys to post some stuff (*everyone: “yeah, what about that John Briggs guy? He has yet to post something, doesn’t he? *), so hopefully you receive some TBB content that isn’t just from yours truly in the next week or two.
Drip…drip…drip.
The rain is now gone,
Where goes the deluge of the sky river?
The constant drip echoes the storm now passing.
The suffering is now gone—or is it? Will it ever?
The single drops fall in rhythm from the grimy gutter upon the sullen, soaked soil.
Drip…drip…drip.
A young man here—another there—drops upon the muddy battlefield embroiled,
Face in the ground, mud in his eyes—he sees better now.
Was it Somme? Or was it Silo′am? He can’t remember somehow.
All the light seems gone from the world,
All seems same in the cold, wet dark.
And the mud is plenty.
But better mud than sand,
The sands of time blind us to memory,
Of which the finger did inscribe our sins
—ornery.
Stones drop from calloused hand,
Yet, the left hand pulls the cord,
There were loud explosions then—the crack, the boom, the hollow chords,
Metals shells do dance and drop
The thunder, too—but now?
Just the silent, quiet…
Drip…drip…drip.
They wouldn’t rest
—never.
Bathsheba’s beauty was there,
But this the kings of Cain did covet,
Sabbath?
—Severed.
Uriah lies face down in the mud.
She had washed.
But they? Only on the outside.
Inside they only hear the constant drip,
A sweet, seductive song,
A hissing harlot’s whisper:
Non serviam…non serviam…non serviam.
They lay festering in the mud,
Where Uriah fell facedown, but at least he sees.
The water is everywhere:
In the sky, falling, in the ground, in my boots, in my eyes.
The droplets, pure and clean, divine really,
Drip into the dirt
—a sacrifice to the sky river—
‘Tis the King, Philippians, in slavish form
Mud covers all; and most remain unclean.
Drip…drip…drip
There’s a leak now and the dam is sure to burst,
Water to help clean all
But fall we must at first
There’s a new flood brimming, and the dam has a leak
Drip…drip…drip
It’s as if history speaks.
The constant drip drops on their souls
—a ticking reminder.
Some have the faith to swim, even walk,
Others? Millstones around their necks, they balk
—they couldn’t be blinder,
And mud, mud, mud chokes and slows,
But for some it’s a salve to see
Drip…drip…drip.
“As he walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, saying to him, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam” (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see.”
~ John 9:1-7