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William Woodson

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OiseauThe Tattered Page (30/05/2008) Oiseau

And so it is that I return again. Here amongst the yellow tattered sheaves.
Long hours lost. Night becomes day. Lamp burning revealing poems and prose.
Only the scholar, the prig, the longing poet know these woods.
Trees fallen for sport, turned to pulp and leveled line by line.
Hearts anguish lost on quiet turnings. Motions mooring at anchor, and then lost at sea.
Some never sail this stead.
This is a place for those who would be alone, strangling culture, seeking out the night.

Finding self once again amongst the tattered page, yellowed and worn by touch and time.
Print bound and blessed sent out into a world of lovers and lunatics.
Rising early morn, or sharing in the night with wine and musty smells of castle walls.
Ye travelers here bring ye bread, offerings for quiet gods.

Do not run to this place, stride slowly,
saunter along the ivy covered ruins,
listen to the watersong.

Much remains to be seen, tasted, harvested to the basket of one’s being.

There is too much here to be consumed in one sitting,
and so it is that day by day,
night by night,
rainy afternoon by the drying fire pieces are placed without purpose,
lessons learned without study, love found alone,
each nuance gleaned and gathered.

Taken at face value so much of the lesson lost.

Here, time and time again to visit the nymphs, the Druid queens, the dancing fauns.
In this placed with torn, worn, aging parchment you gather reciting rhyme.
Plying words with leathery hands. Calloused fingers.
Mirrored motions echoing across the wooded paths.
Here, lost in thoughts, emotions fleeting fast across the mind.
Weakening heart, memory bound in tattered remnants of cloth.
A book bound and passed from hand to hand, pages bent to mark one’s favorite places.
Lines drawn above and below key phrases, colors mark golden lines.
Passages put to memory, read only for the joy it brings.

And so it is with the passing of the book that light shines, no screens illuminating the night.
No e-mailed text message madness.

Written words, cursive curlings of smoke fading in the dawn, lost with time.
One page worn, another new, reflecting choices, places that bind and bring one home again.

So much has remained in a word, in a phrase wrapped around the mind.
Inspired by madness so little is forgotten, obsessive places reread line by line.
Phrases with special meaning. Wit wanting word.
Tattered, marked by thumb as page by page is turned,
the book became the man,
the man the book …. a torn and tattered page.

Time marked him, made him whole and left him smudged about the edges.
Crisp, sharp pleats lying limp. Yellowed by time, marked by touch.

Alas, in time only the night remained silent and alone.

for the visitor had traveled never to return, and yet,

The path taken lay marked, signaled in the silent pulp,
yellowing food for maggots … a torn and tattered page.

Oiseaux
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