Awakened, Canticle, and The First Eloquence
Three poems by James Hamby
Awakened
I was awakened
as I was drawn up—I don’t know
how long I had slept in the murk, buried in
sediment and detritus, succumbing
to sleep and darkness. Content
with oblivion, I had forgotten
I was.
Like a fish on a hook I was drawn up,
compelled, hurtling upward--
illumination dawning on my crepuscular consciousness--
grating against other kelp-like strains of souls
—some in stasis, others drawn up
like me: some joyous, some anguished,
some anaesthetized, indifferent to all others,
some jealous, angry,
yet others patient and content--
and I fighting against it,
not understanding, fearing
the coming light, the thinning water and the air above,
quailing as when I was a child
and the vastness of the booming thunder
made me feel hollow and weak,
and then at last I breached the surface,
gasped the sweet air,
my eyes
free from watery distortion,
perceiving golden sunshine.
And you were there,
the woman I have always known,
mother wife sister and daughter,
and you said, “Quick, before you forget,
tell me what your name was.”
Your question confused me, but
I sensed my memory fading,
and your name already receding from my mind,
so I quickly said, “We are all known by
many names.”
You didn’t answer, the profundity of it all in your eyes
and slightly parted lips...
as I forgot what I had said.
as I was drawn up—I don’t know
how long I had slept in the murk, buried in
sediment and detritus, succumbing
to sleep and darkness. Content
with oblivion, I had forgotten
I was.
Like a fish on a hook I was drawn up,
compelled, hurtling upward--
illumination dawning on my crepuscular consciousness--
grating against other kelp-like strains of souls
—some in stasis, others drawn up
like me: some joyous, some anguished,
some anaesthetized, indifferent to all others,
some jealous, angry,
yet others patient and content--
and I fighting against it,
not understanding, fearing
the coming light, the thinning water and the air above,
quailing as when I was a child
and the vastness of the booming thunder
made me feel hollow and weak,
and then at last I breached the surface,
gasped the sweet air,
my eyes
free from watery distortion,
perceiving golden sunshine.
And you were there,
the woman I have always known,
mother wife sister and daughter,
and you said, “Quick, before you forget,
tell me what your name was.”
Your question confused me, but
I sensed my memory fading,
and your name already receding from my mind,
so I quickly said, “We are all known by
many names.”
You didn’t answer, the profundity of it all in your eyes
and slightly parted lips...
as I forgot what I had said.
Canticle
Insistent, your parasitic nimbus
chokes, twines round my mind, depleting, feeding, yet filling. Scorch me with your redness and ivory cold, your Isis-eyes that kill and create with Astartean assertion. My ache and cure, my tantalus-peach whose tangy-sweet stickiness drips from my chin and lips in phantom pains-- amputated from your presence, compelled to love even my deprivation of you, grateful for your curse. |
The First Eloquence
(After The Popol Vuh)
At first neither sound nor silence
But confused infinity
Of rippling water,
Moaning wind,
And murmurs of what not yet was
At first neither sound nor silence
But confused infinity
Of rippling water,
Moaning wind,
And murmurs of what not yet was
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James Hamby is the Associate Director of the Writing Center at Middle Tennessee State University. He has been a finalist for the XJ Kennedy Parody Award and a nominee for the Pushcart Prize.
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