This Poem was Submitted By: G. Donald Cribbs On Date: 2004-06-14 11:35:34 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
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The Dust of Worms
My words rise like a worm to the surface;
I devour earth, minerals, filaments of light,
pass these through a fiery, tendriled body.
Down in the stalks of gathered water
I posture hands, bend to the hardened womb,
turn to eat the placenta now worn at my feet.
Perched atop dark pines, crows tear flesh.
Hell is not much farther than their feathery
darkness gorged, clinging to a dead tree.
And what will come next, but the distance
of rivers which worms move between;
flesh stirring flesh, spirit stirring spirit.
Through water, the glimpse of light passes
between the bowels.
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Copyright © June 2004 G. Donald Cribbs
Additional Notes:
This poem is thematic to the book of poetry I'm writing, called "Worms in the Summer Grass." I'll be posting more from that next month. Here's an introductory essay I wrote to capture the nature of a worm:
As a young boy, I remember the excitement of gathering tackle and bait in the early pre-dawn twilight of spring and summer, and heading toward nearby lakes to fish. During the winter months, I joined burly men in plaid jackets with rifles, hunting game and deer, or a tree felling with chainsaws and axes and the sweet smell of wood chips freshly spit from the teeth of saw blades. Such rites of passage often go unnoticed until the passions of manhood awaken them from unconsciousness to consciousness, like worms flooded out of the earth to the surface.
The elusive worm, casting itself through tons of earth, minerals, and elements symbolized to me this requited youth; whether by digging up hours of loose earth and feeling their cool pink muscular bodies trembling through my fingers, or by crucifying them on bait hooks to draw fish from the waters. These humble servants of the earth, continually aerating the ground, providing fertile land to feed us, have also come to us from legend as great serpents and dragons, such as Firedrake, who conquered Beowulf or Ladon who labored Heracles in myth. But, in particular, it was the nature of worms which captured my attention: their patient perseverance to take in the world through their instrument bodies, to turn over and process each speck and filament, and to return these castings back to the earth more fertile than before. The question stung on my lips, “How can I pour my life into the earth, leaving behind significance and making the world a better place than before?”
Tiny prophets of the earth, these worms have given me a taste of the eternal, opening a window into spaces between the conscious and unconscious, the earth and the firmament, the elements of water and blood, and the spirit and the flesh. No longer a boy, but a man, I am their evangelist.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2004-07-06 17:43:19
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.27907
Don,
I, for one, love that you "explain" these poems to us. Much lyrical poetry has its genesis in a personal experience of the poet. And, because modern poetry is much more elliptical, almost beginning "in media res," but not in the middle of a story, but in the middle of the poet's imaginative experience, even astute readers can not pick up fully on what's going on. So . . . i like the fact that you show us how we got to the "middle" of the experience that is your poem.
Great work, as always.
Mark
This Poem was Critiqued By: Molly Johnson On Date: 2004-06-27 00:33:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.00000
D,
What a spectacular cause! I enjoy how you revel in the minutae (sp) and find myself in awe of the elevation of your subject through language.
Favorite lines:
"I devour earth, minerals, filaments of light,
pass these through a fiery, tendriled body."
What gorgeous imagery. The elemental nature of these lines lends cement to what you are doing as a writer. Nice juxtaposition of delicate images and substantial content.
"Down in the stalks of gathered water
I posture hands, bend to the hardened womb,
turn to eat the placenta now worn at my feet."
I like the imagery in these lines as well but I find them a little more difficult to hold. I do however like the balance of the reverent posturing and the implication of the scavenger nature of the speaker.
The movemnet to the perspective of the worms is an interesting shift. It is what comes next and I can feel the distance between rivers.
Really interesting work. Thanks for sharing.
Molly J
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2004-06-20 21:31:50
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.69231
Hi Donald,
You have packed some very graphic images into this piece. I have never been afraid
of worms because as a young child my father let me look for them in the dirt and when I
found one he let me put it in the bait can. I remember crawling along the grass in the
dark with a flash light and grabbing night crawlers just before they could wiggle into
their holes. However, I must admit that your imagery is so acute that I began to feel
just a bit crawly as read the lines. Only a good writer can evoke such a response with
the written word. Words such as..devour, firey tendriled body, eat the placenta,...that
one really got me! Then you paint a picture of a crow sitting atop the pines...tear
flesh..yes they do and it is not a pretty sight....'Hell is not much father than their
feathery darkness gorged, clinging to a dead tree' wonderful descriptors here....'rivers
which worms move between..flesh stirring flesh, spirit stirring spirit'..another very
graphic picture....'through water, the glimpse of light passes between the bowles'
Very well done...give us more!
Peace...Marilyn
This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2004-06-15 11:48:13
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
The Dust of Worms [great tile]
My words rise like a worm to the surface;
perhaps "words" plural so we see them em masse slithering up - in any case
what a fascinating image.
I devour earth, minerals, filaments of light,
pass these through a fiery, tendriled body.
Down in the stalks of gathered water[good Bibical allusion]
I posture hands, bend to the hardened womb,
turn to eat the placenta now worn [wow] at my feet.
ah..yes birth to death to birth all feeding on itself - an orgy of life
Perched atop dark pines, crows tear flesh.
Hell is not much farther than their feathery
darkness gorged, clinging to a dead tree.
I want to know what they have that they are eating - a rabbit? snake? It does indeed seem that hell is not far from such a scene. I saw a photo of a hawk on a charred branch holding a charred rabbit after the recent forest fire here in California, and it still gives me chills to think about it. It helped to make the scene into a haiku though.
And what will come next, but the distance
of rivers which worms move between;
flesh stirring flesh, spirit stirring spirit.
lots to thnk about here
Through water, the glimpse of light passes
between the bowels.
the bowels? The bowels of our skulls? Bodies? This is a little confusing to me.
REally fine speculative and rich piece, Don
You might consider, for your book, an epigram culled from that great Poe poem
The Conquerer worm:
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THE CONQUEROR WORM
by Edgar Allan Poe
1843
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama–oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!–it writhes!–with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out–out are the lights–out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Wayne R. Leach On Date: 2004-06-14 20:35:09
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.40000
Don,
I would almost call this excellent piece an allegorical conceit poem. It goes beond the metaphorical in my estimation. It really is well constructed and very thought provoking, requiring some acute attention from the reader. Your imagery is exemplary, the short "e" assonance in S3 combined with the alliteration of the "f"s making this stanza my favorite of the lot. Thanks for the extensive introductory post. It helped me understand more completely the exactness of your intent. I don't see how I could suggest improvement, unless to expand on that closing verse just a little. Good luck with the book. I must have a copy. Regards, wrl
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