ḥaql(u)-d-dam(i) — Field of Blood (Arabic) <—> Aceldama <—> Potter’s Field.
I’ve read and listened to Edith Sitwell’s darkly musical poem “Still Falls the Rain,” guided there by poet Charles Behlen. It spurred a flurry of reference tracing; soars over broad reaches of scripture and fable in a short space; has structures to ponder.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there have mercy on us… The light that died the last faint spark in the self-murdered heart… Dark-smirched with pain as Caesar’s laurel crown…
Poetry! Speech that’s shivery, oblique, steep, loosed from the modulation of transition markers and clarifying relators. Where’s not to be staggered?
I feel like I approach a poem as I would a Formula One race car sitting on the track. I don’t have the road sensitivity and reflexes of a Hamilton or Verstappen that would let me know firsthand the G-force of hairpin curves rounded at irrational speeds, and the blurred scream down straightaways. I please myself instead with gaping at its innards and fingering its surfaces, busily inquisitive over details of design and fabrication that make the beast corner so sweetly.
I live in Texas and devote much of my time to easel painting on an amateur basis. I stream a lot of music, mostly jazz, throughout the day. I like to read and memorize poetry.
EthicalDative 
Field of Blood
I’ve read and listened to Edith Sitwell’s darkly musical poem “Still Falls the Rain,” guided there by poet Charles Behlen. It spurred a flurry of reference tracing; soars over broad reaches of scripture and fable in a short space; has structures to ponder.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there have mercy on us… The light that died the last faint spark in the self-murdered heart… Dark-smirched with pain as Caesar’s laurel crown…
Poetry! Speech that’s shivery, oblique, steep, loosed from the modulation of transition markers and clarifying relators. Where’s not to be staggered?
I feel like I approach a poem as I would a Formula One race car sitting on the track. I don’t have the road sensitivity and reflexes of a Hamilton or Verstappen that would let me know firsthand the G-force of hairpin curves rounded at irrational speeds, and the blurred scream down straightaways. I please myself instead with gaping at its innards and fingering its surfaces, busily inquisitive over details of design and fabrication that make the beast corner so sweetly.
(c) 2022 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved
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About JMN
I live in Texas and devote much of my time to easel painting on an amateur basis. I stream a lot of music, mostly jazz, throughout the day. I like to read and memorize poetry.