The fragile nature of the object
Center Of The Earth
For Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
And so gravity takes another star. The center of the Earth wants to give you a hug. In magmanimous embracings it does so a little every day. Bones and cradles rock us into its arms as the pull of milk and marrow commences before we’ve barely known mother from the inside out, before even she has held us to her ripeness, her empire of flesh and love.
The center of the Earth wishes to give you a hug. It brought a writer down and did not think about the tectonics of this driftless desire, gave no mind to the thickness of impossibility or the fragile nature of the object. It merely wanted to hold him dearly, as it does all of us, which is why we fall so often to its pressing lure, bruise and kneel to its entreaty to come to solace in a blue sun.
There are cores we will never know, can never express in fathoms or soundings, that resonate only through the membrane of being alive. It is a veil we trail behind us in smoke and song one might easily mistake for art or craft, the pungence of a rare blossom that stains a moonless night but once in the history of a sky.
The center of the Earth wishes to give you a hug and if you let it, it will bring you all the way down to the piston of its red pulse until it savors your rhythm and sips you like a harmonium, humming as a world you’ve barely half-eaten in music and the million waves of silence each sounded thing leaves in its peal.
The center of the Earth wishes to give you a hug and, in time, we all summit to do so, to leave our names in the wind and wanderless ways that pass so pure and effortless there.
Joseph Gallo
April 11, 2007
For Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
And so gravity takes another star. The center of the Earth wants to give you a hug. In magmanimous embracings it does so a little every day. Bones and cradles rock us into its arms as the pull of milk and marrow commences before we’ve barely known mother from the inside out, before even she has held us to her ripeness, her empire of flesh and love.
The center of the Earth wishes to give you a hug. It brought a writer down and did not think about the tectonics of this driftless desire, gave no mind to the thickness of impossibility or the fragile nature of the object. It merely wanted to hold him dearly, as it does all of us, which is why we fall so often to its pressing lure, bruise and kneel to its entreaty to come to solace in a blue sun.
There are cores we will never know, can never express in fathoms or soundings, that resonate only through the membrane of being alive. It is a veil we trail behind us in smoke and song one might easily mistake for art or craft, the pungence of a rare blossom that stains a moonless night but once in the history of a sky.
The center of the Earth wishes to give you a hug and if you let it, it will bring you all the way down to the piston of its red pulse until it savors your rhythm and sips you like a harmonium, humming as a world you’ve barely half-eaten in music and the million waves of silence each sounded thing leaves in its peal.
The center of the Earth wishes to give you a hug and, in time, we all summit to do so, to leave our names in the wind and wanderless ways that pass so pure and effortless there.
Joseph Gallo
April 11, 2007
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
November 11, 1922 - April 11, 2007
post-time 11:11 PM
5 Comments:
Absolutely brilliant, Joseph!!
A most fitting tribute to an exceedingly bright star in the universe of my entire life.
Thank you.
And so gravity takes another star.
The centre of the Earth wants to give you a hug ...
Well, Joseph, I'd not like to sound repetitive ... but I do have to tell you I just love the way you write. Never thought I'd read about someone's death in such a way. I really loved it!
Beautiful, Joseph. And once again, like so many times before, something so sad can still spark beauty. Well done!
This week I have been torn
Rent by the loss of a dearest branch
I speak in tones only the sensitive
Will or can hear.
I count on them
for my articulation.
I would rather be cut down
Than to expose that raw hard flesh
of wood
to the anguish of raw air.
Come to me; I will bring you strength or make you aware how much you already have.
That is what Broad Oaks are for.
Trees love their poets,
for they tell our inner secrets.
That's what a poet is for,
by talking we know he has listened
to our silent roar.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I don't think this week would has been as bearable if I didn't know that I could count on your articulation.
To all who have written such amazingly kind and wonderful comments on this piece for a truly one-of-a-kind writer in Vonnegut, thank you.
Aharamanx: Your tribute is in being a lifelong fan and avid reader of our beloved KV. :-)
Jonice: I have written far too many memorial poems in my life beginning with the very first one. It seems to be my given lot in this life. You would honor me by reading his most recent book called, A Man Without A Country.
He speaks for many of us Americans, eloquently and simply, as he addresses our legion disatisfaction with our government and the inappropriate manner in which it wields its power in the world.
Joni: Sadness sparks beauty. Are we not most human when overcome by the gravity of grief? Perhaps this entire universe is all but an expression of a beautiful sadness given all the space that both separates and unites us.
Lady Broadoak: It is not often we are graced by such singular responses and yours is indeed that.
You have said much in but a few words and as poets we are given to expose raw hard flesh rather than be silently cut down.
We understand that truth can be found at opposite ends of the root and that what teeters in the sun at the top also tunnels in the dirt at the bottom.
Thank you for your dear words and please visit whenever you wish.
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