Bonus Poem of the Day: “Submergence” by David Pring-Mill

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Submergence” by David Pring-Mill.  A brief biography of the poet may be found here:   http://eretzsongs.blogspot.com/2015/07/poem-of-day-that-stomping-sensibility.html.

Submergence

David Pring-Mill

Sink,

a languid, pale being

in clawfoot tub,

with an oval bar

of tallow, opaque;

and the water itself

becomes less clear.

I am the being,

listening with delight

to the swirl

brought about by reaching toe…

My feet,

so scabbed.

The sandals didn't fit,

but the being marched

across the beach at nighttime

… until he fell.

Submergence is given

to things that fall,

things with weight…

The weight of thoughts

and the weight of bodies

both fluctuate.

Sink,

Then sit

as remaining droplets

combine, are pulled

over enamel

into drain, as if

by gravity's string,

along the careful angle

of porcelain tub,

My hand clasping,

over roll rim,

and just like that,

the being's foot

lands, dripping

upon the texture

of sprouting thread.

Once presentable,

I wander in shared spaces

Under sky;

Each step

is aided by the dead mind

of Ferragamo.

I wander, blink, and see things

I don't always believe.

And the voltage runs through me,

accelerates feet

insulated by suede

Through a store window,

one warped, televised broadcast

blares out:

"Recently,

officials identified

innumerable members of society

who had become disoriented.

They sulked in shadows,

questioning it all…"

The brume of ingenuity

rises, unsettling, over

a settled land,

of bulwarked circuitry,

beanstalk fusions

of silica,

the blush and glitter

of tired shames.

To slink away,

in Cimmerian shade,

The Being goes

with gingham stripes of lavender

adorning buttoned chest,

now dry;

lavender levity, redeeming

the mind's fraying thoughts.

Raccoon-eyed, a woman

moves slowly, her shoulders

hosting thin spaghetti straps,

which cling lovingly

to her,

Her cocktail dress, light, and body barely

separable from night

in sexy saunter;

as bulbs of inspired action, faltering words

fill up with light and then flicker…

Thought is weaker than tungsten,

And the filament breaks.

To slink away,

in Cimmerian shade,

the being, thwarted by sight,

loses sight of his thoughts,

becomes deaf to his own words…

He is a being resigned

to an unpredictable world,

and a wonderful world.

To pin my honesty

upon these wrecked rhythms,

I admit:

I follow the woman

(intending nothing)

into a café,

open late

and warmly glowing

out at cold, salty air.

She orders

a hot drink.

Her voice is soft,

raspy,

and her words come out

like little baby steps,

with clumsy spacing.

She is trying

to avoid making an impression,

as if doing so would be

an indentation

upon sacred ground.

She quietly

asks for what she wants,

and little more;

That is her,

it seems.

I smile.

Politely, I twist

uneasy words into request,

and ask

the barista for water;

that is all I want,

truly.

Later at night, of course,

I consider again

I touch

the consoling white threads

of my bathrobe.

I notice my monogram,

and consider that, too.

The delay of an item,

embroidered,

reflects the delay of a name;

so often, the baby conceived

precedes that task of naming.

how to name?

how to name a being

when it is still a thing,

to you?

How to cast a title

upon a life, so far,

led by nothing

but predictions and whims

of infantile, helpless parents?

Other times, perhaps

the name precedes the life

when the baby

is anything but accident,

is the fulfillment of plan.

My robe, tied tightly,

with elegant characters

interlocking 

in swirling cursive.

My letters, bold and illegible

in a hexagon.

what is this really?

A monogram…

the initials

of a man and his line

of blood; and yet

the bloodline is unseen,

how it mixed and swirled

to form characters of a different kind

(real people),

with all of them now

resigned to that secondary letter.

Nearby, a neck

with dots of follicles,

an Adam's apple, exposed

through shawl collar,

and a coughing, small mouth

with a cigarette bending

out of dried, cracked lips

drawn by slowly peeling

white-pink skin.

"Hmm, okay," the lips say.

I don't remember, of course,

the time when I first lost my body,

With thoughts risen and body submerged,

Even time belongs

In murky depths.

Expecting wild looks,

I find my way

to a nearby bar.

There, a blue collar type of man

paces outside,

with God-knows-what type of thoughts

racing and sputtering:

In his hands,

a bill, crisp and green.

In that moment, his thoughts

reorganize around new money;

with obligations dispelled,

possibilities permitted.

The bill slides

into his wallet, beneath a band

of metal, making

a center-crease.

There is dirt beneath

his nails,

blood encrusted, lightly

on newly-minted knuckles,

Dust powdering his boots

so completely,

and then a steel-toed stride

vibrates through panels

of wood, with that sweet

beer-stained odor

of rising, drying barley fumes

dizzying and seeping.

There is hacking, coughing,

as hands connected

to smoky lungs

reach down, tenderly pull

at the corners of money…

A crisp bill slides over

a cappuccino-finish surface

without any perk;

these renovated assets

so dimly lit,

near nylon-blend concourse,

hollow-sounding

clicks and slams

of ricocheted luck,

things spinning out of control

near betting men.

But in this fumbling daze of Friday,

all drops of clarity fall down throats

and burn.

We drink together,

and watch the game.

He is agreeable enough,

And to myself, in final thoughts,

I explain:

Life is both a window

and a mirror,

changing intermittently,

without warning:

transparent

& reflective.

When tensions rise,

I find myself

lashing out,

frustrated,

at that uncooperative being

lashing back.

And it is my own energy.

Yet at other times,

life is just a window:

and I must see

people as they are.

None of this lasts, you know.

We sink into the blackness of the universe.

Poet's Notes:  "Submergence" is really a poem about psychological burnout. The weight of existence seems to be cumbersome for the characters in this narrative poem; they are sinking. Their greatest burden is a pervasive fear – of words, love, legacy, and even clarity.

Editor’s Note:  This poem is aptly entitled, for I found myself submerging into it as I read--an interesting and not unpleasant feeling.  I enjoy the way the piece languorously meanders from topic to topic, setting to setting, wisdom to wisdom.