Red Silk 19 Feb 18

Ymmm. . . red silk – what a luscious image, eh? Then again, consider just what has colored this elegant cloth. Simple dye? Unintended leaching from another piece of cloth? An image for the setting sun? A metaphor for blood?

As in last week’s post, this poem is a metaphor heaven. If you took last week’s challenge and worked a bit to ferret out the metaphors in “Serpent Saint,” you are now equipped for the metaphor hunting safari that “Red Silk” provides.

RED SILK

                                   

                                                For one I know, dying

                                                            is red silk above a charcoal portrait

                                                            Silk sheer as the borealis and ghostly vast

                                                The charcoal body rests paper-light on fiery poppies            

                                                Red silk billows close on the face at rest

                                                            almost caresses the ivory parchment

                                                            amid black-frilled poppy breasts

                                                

Whorls of red petals shadowed by the black strokes

                                                            of the hard cross of Malta thrust into

                                                            a sea of bloodied soldiers rooted to their final posts

                                                Beneath the wind-blown crimson silk

                                                            yellow-eyed familiar faces flower

                                                           bodies prostrate for any boot to trample

                                                Aloft, the silk veils the trampling

                                                            and the truth of after

                                                

Each dying differs from the rest

                                                One travels rabbit warrens

                                                            looking for the promised light

                                                The doe’s death bow signals the dance

                                                            to the eager predator

                                                Another dives unexpected, without horizon,

                                                            into a frigid black northern lake

                                                Mohammed, Christ, Kuan Yin, and Buddha

                                                            All arrive at the slightest call 

                                              

A raindrop pierces a still, green pond

                                                            expanding ripples in the silence

                                                A relentless fly buzzes against a broken pane

                                                A lone Canada Goose sounds a high, homing call

                                                            A drop of black ink

                                                            Twenty-nine bells

                                                All gladness that the end has come

                                                Red silk flicks specks of charcoal

                                                            off the portraits in the poppies

                                                            lifts weightless particles up

                                                            agitating slender red threads

                                                                        thin as air

                                                No more matters, just the next beyond

                                                Sheer cloth patterns signify nothing

                                                            Unknown but for red silk hints

                                                            against the fire turned dark

                                                            gone into the westward breach

                                                Returned to silence

                                                Glad the end has come

                                                            Wrapped in red silk

                                                            Lifted by red-poppy soldiers

                                                            toward the last glacial sun

Note: Please do not feel that addressing each point of exploration is the goal. The point is to select the ones that resonate with you, and expand from there. Maybe just one exploration opens up the entire poem for you. Maybe several. Like poetic interpretations, many approaches exist for unraveling a poem. Go with what feels accessible and worthwhile to you.

Background: This poem was originally drafted in a time close to the end of the Vietnam War. At that time, it really didn’t express what I wanted. Several decades later, I was privileged to work on a large project with representatives from all branches of the U.S. military. Iraq and Afghanistan were the focus of conflict. I met and worked with many personnel who came and went with their deployments. Some did not return. Others came back ruined in mind and/or body. Many came back stronger, wiser. In the Vietnam years, I had been quite the protester, and in my hubris, I thought I knew something. By the time Iraq and Afghanistan raised their clashing banners, I had mellowed considerably, and had realized I knew almost nothing about being part of the military complex either in its administrative form or on the fields of conflict. Not surprisingly, the years I worked on the military project taught me a thing or two thousand. I began to feel I could do justice to this poem – a tiny offering to the magnificent men and women who stand on the wall, watching, and as summoned, fighting, so we can sleep without bombs exploding over our heads.

Exploration #1: Based on the entire poem, who is dying in the first line?

Exploration #2: Based on the imagery and metaphors in the poem, identify the events and/or environment that the dying ones are experiencing, i.e., what is the setting?

Exploration #3:  Charcoal is black contrasted to bright red silk and poppies. Could these colors represent something concrete?

Exploration #4: “Each dying differs from the rest. . .” is a line followed by three short descriptions of a death. Could these three descriptions represent three perspectives on death? How can there be three perspectives if death, in essence, is the same experience? Or is it?

Exploration #5: The stanza beginning “A raindrop enters. . .” contains at least six metaphors. Try to identify them as well as what they are being compared to.

Exploration #6: Assuming the poem is about dying, consider these two phrases:
1) “All gladness that the end has come. . .” and,
2) “Glad the end has come . . .” Why, in the face of dying, could there be gladness?

Exploration #7: Consider the following excerpts:
1) “the next beyond,”
2) “gone into the westward breach,” and,
3) “the last glacial sun.” What do they have in common? Does their placement at the end of the poem help reveal the poem’s meaning?

I won’t say “have fun” with this one; the topic is not one of merriment. Still, might there at least be a beauty in the images and word choices? Poems like this one challenge both the poet and the reader to look deeply into areas that we usually shun. Still, worthwhile insights can emerge from engaging poems like this one. Do you think this is true?

Once again, I sincerely and respectfully invite readers to respond in whatever ways feel appropriate; likewise, I promise to comment on any and all of your posts. I hope that the clues and explorations are making the poems more accessible and amenable to your discoveries.

Jack Pine Savage