Woman,
you are a stalk of shadow on the hill,
gray gnarled hands reaching for him.
Bound to the tree, he is blazing
and poppy-colored.
The hideous symmetry of his arms,
stretched and ripped over the expanse,
bends your own bones to bursting.
Woman,
you’re not the lily you used to be,
soft, lovely, with smooth skin;
you’re withered, carved,
your face a violent etching.
Your chalk lips are opened
to the dark in your mouth,
screaming,
your throat is the neck of an alabaster jar
filled with
give me my baby.
Woman,
they tear him from the rood,
severing the remaining strings
of veins caught in the splinters.
When they pitch him down,
you feel as though
your own heart
plummets
from its hidden chamber.
He falls upon the gravel,
a scarlet star earthbound.
Woman,
you crawl to him,
your tattered skirts
a trail of darkness behind you.
Revulsion writhes in you
like a great worm,
yet you are empty,
hollow.
Woman,
you gather him in your arms,
and he is heavy,
like lead,
heavy as the whole moon.
He is the world, the kingdom,
and you hold him,
bear him,
if only to press your life into his body.
Woman,
you toss aside his jagged crown.
Your hands are clotted with him;
his blood covers you like wet leaves.
You see the smoky, blue faces
of the people beneath the hill.
You say that they don’t deserve him,
not a single broken finger of him.
Woman,
you pull the pieces of him to your breasts
and remember that you hold
the dense arms, broad chest,
shining, hanging head,
narrow hips,
long, willowy legs
thick, pearly feet,
and strong hands
of God.
But, you ask,
for once, can’t he just be my baby
and nothing else?
Woman,
the people wear the sackcloth of grief,
but you know they are inwardly gorged.
They don’t care that he’s your child.
They didn’t see the beautiful youth
with obsidian hair
and wide eyes like jade stones.
To them, he is just a payment,
their own salvation
weighed in pounds of flesh.
Woman,
hailed, haunted,
graceless Mary,
behold your son.
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125,008 Literary Works • 672,831 Reviews
I don't have much to say because I do have almost absolute appreciation for the solidity of your raw imagery. But let's talk for a bit, specifically in regards to your very last line.
Eight stanzas of concrete, guttural images that put together a piece that obviously inflames spiritual energy in those who align with its characters, but also evokes decent emotion in those who don't align with it--and you break all of this imagery and structurally sound composition by suddenly changing gears completely into an imperative ending. Now, remember that over the years, I've read nearly all your works, dropped crits on some and left others alone because they were either level or subtle against what I look for. But across all those works, your endings are your downfall. Straight from Lumi's mouth: you have an Achilles' Heel.
Consider your ending in terms of what a conventional ending will be: the classical singularity of emotive power, bringing the reader into an emotional apex or nadir, or a sentiment that is in thought-train with the remainder of the poem that can stand--and haunt--on its own. But here, you break your voice and betray the ravenous name-calling of "my baby" and the flesh of god, and go to the basic line of Mary Did You Know that anyone in the Western World has heard every December since 1992. You have to find the ache of this piece and either have it whisper to your reader, or shut down their outer thoughts with power.
I'm not going to give you suggestions because our voices don't sync up properly. Just give the ending a half hour. Write twenty endings. Change them out every week. Find the one you want to go back to after a couple of days. It'll latch onto you.
Otherwise, pay some mind to the alabaster jar line because it deviates from the subtlety of the building religious exposure and dives into a completely different Jesus story involving a different woman altogether. Hit me up if you have questions.
Lums
Are my replies showing up? If they are, I'm sorry. I can't see them. (Maybe I'll just PM you.)
YWS has been eating mine, too. CENSORSHIP.
Wow. This was wonderful.
I absolutely loved how you portrayed a side of Mary that many never even considered. I caught on fairly quickly, but the way you dropped larger and larger hints in each stanza as to whom the poem was about--fantastic.
You started each stanza with "Woman" and it reminded me of when Jesus addressed his mother after she told him they were out of wine at the wedding. Not too sure if it's relevant, but...oh well.
-
"you’re withered, carved,
your face a violent etching.
Your chalk lips are opened
to the dark in your mouth,
screaming"
These lines, in particular, were my favorites by far. They contained so much detail, it would have been hard NOT to picture it. That is a feat in itself. GreatGreatGreat. I've never seen such imagery used before, especially when describing the mother of Jesus. Kudos to you.
-
"your throat is the neck of an alabaster jar
filled with
give me my baby."
Chills. I'm not kidding, you gave me chills with these lines. She was obedient to God's will, wasn't she? Yet, she had to have felt something for her son.
-
I don't have any nitpicks, except maybe capitalizing "He" when referring to Jesus. But maybe you kept it that way in order to not give the topic away on the first few lines? I'm not sure, so disregard this completely if that was your reasoning
Happy writing and have a wonderful day,
DarkHeart
Thank you! If it were any other occasion, I would capitalize "he", but I feel like it would ruin the tension of the piece.
Oh. My. Gosh.
This, this is absolutely perfect. Amazing. Beautiful. Wonderful. A true work of art.
I better stop now, or I never will.
I can honestly think that these were the thoughts of Mary (paraphrased somewhat) as she went through her life and saw Jesus crucified.
I do have one little issue with this vision of loveliness, however.
The beginning of this stanza made me think of the carvings of Mary that can be found in churches and cathedrals. But the end somewhat confuses me. I'm curious as to where the 'give me my baby' line comes from, since it really came out of no where. And I am left wondering what the neck of the alabaster jar is filled with.
But other than that, I stand amazed in the presence of this great work. The imagery is like nothing I have ever seen or read, and it is at a level that most people can only hope to reach. You really capture her grief, especially at the end. Wow. There really is nothing more that I can say or do.
~Teen~
Thank you! The neck of the jar is her throat, and it is filled with the words "give me my baby".
Oooooooh. I get it now.
Bravo. Seriously, bravo.
You have created what can only be described as a masterpiece, i will do a quick nitpick though, and i'm not even sure if it is that.
'Your chalk lips are opened
to the dark in your mouth,
screaming,
your throat is the neck of an alabaster jar
filled with
give me my baby.'
I am not entirely sure if this flows properly. It seems a bit awkward and staggered. I think it is the use of filled with, I don't know, it just seems a bit off. It is beautiful imagery but in terms of poetic structure I am not entirely sure it works.
However, that being said there are so much of this poem which shines. You have excellent beautiful imagery. The idea of him being cut and his blood being leaves. You use great similies here and I think it is well done. The idea of her grief is interesting and i've never seen it done before and I think it is a genius take on things. I just love it, and I want to thank you for writing it. Truly, as it is a poem I can say honestly that I have enjoyed reading.
Well done,
keep it up.
~Retro
Thank you! I'll work on that stanza.
WOW. I loved the amount of detail. ITs really good to read someone's work that has so much talent. Overall I loved it . nothing was bad about it everything was great
Thank you!