Friday, May 22, 2009

These Songs of Quiet Falcons

In the sticky heat of the evening
all these sounds around me, all
that surface static keeping me
from the chasm of being alone

Between the records that I
fill the night with, after
the television has ceased
to blare and rumble, when
only the tidal noise of
the dishwasher and the
river's run of the traffic
on the highway are there,

When the slow mutter of
my ancient dog as he
looks, half blind into
the indistinct night,
and I am still within
myself, considering
the strangeness of
existing within this
flesh, with its oddities
and unknowns,

I consider these sensations,
wonder if one of them is
a harbinger of sickness,
of the clinging infirmity,
that slowly eats us,
pride first, and makes us
mute, unimportant, forgotten
over time,

And again, I think that these
thoughts are only insecurity,
only incipient moments of
hypochondriasis on my part,
after all, perhaps it runs
in the family, over and above,
I'm moody, and these things
tend to catch one out without
the noise to block them,

But falconry then drifts in,
after the radio story, and
the longing to be so honed,
so beautiful in form, so
well-suited to the purpose
at hand, instead of being this
great, undetermined creature,
more brain than body, more
thought than flesh, but yet
tethered to the mundane at
every turn,

Yes, falcons come to mind,
and their bloody games, the
quiet of them when they are
hooded, the simplicity and
grace of their dream-like
faith in the wind,

But dreams like these move
time but slowly forward, and
it is a hot night, and what
little noise there is will soon fade,
leaving only the half made man,
bound to the keyboard, struggling
with these concepts just slightly
beyond his reach.


Anonymous said...

Awe Patrick, this one is beautiful. I'm afraid you cought me in a similar mood - melancholy I guess. I had to read this one several times just to let it settle in. It stands with some of your most poignant work.

Still, you're not as old as your dog. Chin up. You probably just need a vacation. Maybe a road trip ...

It's also hot here in the NE this evening. Tomorrow promises to be cooler though.


Patrick M. Tracy said...


Thanks, I'm glad you liked this one. I felt a poem coming on, and I never know exactly where they will take me. This one, unusually, was fairly "slice of life".

You are correct, I'm not as old as my old pup. He's still plugging along pretty well, all the same.

Good to hear from you. I hope to have more posts on all my web ventures in the future. I've been too lax with them in the recent past, and must get the nose back in contact with the grindstone.

Anonymous said...

I liked this one, Patrick. To me, it was restful, soothing.

Anonymous said...

Oh! I love this one! I think that I may read it many times in the future. Yes! It IS beautiful. M

S.L. Corsua said...

It echoes through me, as well. I find myself nodding to the sentiments you've expressed, as I find myself relating to the persona in the poem. So, how are you now, Patrick? It's been a while. I hope to keep in touch (preferably wingtip-to-wingtip, as a falcon en route to writer's enlightenment). ;) Cheers.

Patrick M. Tracy said...

Bobby and M,

Thanks for coming by. Hope you're well. Glad you liked the poem.


Glad to see you come by. I haven't been the most sociable blogger in the world lately. For a while, it seemed as if everyone had gotten their fill of blogging (myself included). I hope to keep in touch with everyone more effectively in the coming months, though.

I've come over to Unguarded Utterance from time to time, but I'm afraid that I mostly lurked, rather than commenting. Bad me. I promise I'll come by more frequently.

Anyway, thanks, folks, for actually giving my wheezy old blog some comments!

S.L. Corsua said...

Haha! No problem, dear. I've been mostly absent from the blogosphere, too, for the past couple of months. I keep telling myself to at least post once a month. Man, we've been at this since 2005 (though in my case, I had a personal blog in 2004, before moving to "Unguarded Utterance" the following year). And four years later, we're still here. Makes me feel old, gotta tell you. (chuckle)

Karen Tracy said...

Wow what imagry to be a falcon so honed and so beautifully formed. In the best of my dreams I fly and I really have no great purpose just to observe quietly. This brings those dreams to mind and I want to dwell here.

Across Inconstant Breath

Would that this skin this frail armor atop the husk of slow departure -  Would that it held against the teeth  of night's maw a...