Hymn To Trust

[rowens]

                      Hymn To Trust


Welcome is not the word, open already
moving. Engaging, presenting, investigating 
as seasons turn one color.
Naturally four limbs, leap and grabbing for leaves
grown and ungrown. Established,
strange files, combining apartment and office,
desk and bed. And so many places.

Ripe situation as complete as 
the works scattered in fragments
in pages and notes in and between the realm
of the room, all over
like so much Osiris;
I sometimes wish for a sister goddess,
warm and firm, with flowering hands,
to help form the holy egg
together again.

As though I was writing from tradition. Again, as though
separation is no death.
Fingers held so widely apart only
send warm shivers like keys to locks
too tight.

There is nothing in the middle. But there is something between.

The remnant of a stranger's bullet in your favorite tree
need not rearrange the scenery 
so that even busy squirrel or skittish cat
need climb a desperate thing.

Open love is the only true sun,
and its grinding shadows and sheets
pay as much love as love gives out.
My books are like that. Too distant to be
rightly burned; but a sabbat and a low kiss
tell the spells in wandering gossip on satyred winds.
Some fine panic I'll light the moisture in the moss,
and wake as from a tent an hour past dawn:

The world awake.
The work not finished,
but getting there.

[TranquillityBase]

I like the jumps (from "grown and ungrown" to "Established,/strange files.." throughout the poem; I like the flow into the mythological and out again to your voice, somewhat familiar for a moment from your other writings, then, once we get to the stranger's bullet, we are back in the poem; I like the next to last stanza the best.  Your familiar voice is back in the last stanza.

[rowens]

Being me always, somehow doesn't work, in a world where others exist. You have to be yourself fully, in between everybody else. So how do you do that?

---

This poem is a personal poem to a specific person. This poem is in reference to what magicians and alchemists call the Great Work. I could have said The Great Work, but I said the Great Work. Because this poem is referring to canonical literature, and Personal. Personal in the sense of individualistic, with and simply with persona. Ignoring canonical literature, being as selfish as a self can be, using a language that I was born into. And that my books are all over the place, and I'm trying to piece them together, alone, while filling notebooks with new books, making the ones I'm trying to find to piece together even more scattered between the new and personally relevant.

[LoreSmith]

                      Hymn To Trust


Welcome is not the word, open already If I were you I'd take away the comma and add a but, then insert an "and" after the word "already".
moving. Engaging, presenting, investigating To emphasize the words here I'd run them down singularly like "Engaging,
presenting,
investigating"
as seasons turn one color. I do think that the words "a singular" might work slightly better than "one color". Those are just my thoughts on the matter, though.
Naturally four limbs, leap and grabbing for leaves The word grabbing should be switched to "grab" as it leap denotes a present sense.
grown and ungrown. Established, I think it would sound better to move "Established" down a line next to strange files.
strange files, combining apartment and office,
desk and bed. And so many places. I'd write this as "desk and bed and ever so many places."

Ripe situation as complete as 
the works scattered in fragments
in pages and notes in and between the realm
of the room, all over I would personally cut all over since scattered already implies it is all over. It's just a little redundant is all.
like so much Osiris;
I sometimes wish for a sister goddess,
warm and firm, with flowering hands,
to help form the holy egg The words "form the holy egg together again." sound just a little bit clunky. I would try something like "to help bring the holy egg" and then in the line below I would put "together once more" instead of "together again".
together again.  

As though I was writing from tradition. Again, as though I'd move everything from the word Again down next to separation.
separation is no death. I'd put "not" here instead of "no".
Fingers held so widely apart only I'd take out the word "only". It would help to create a better flowing movement in your piece.
send warm shivers like keys to locks I'd put "balmy" instead of "warm" and say instead "like keys fit in locks, a bit too tight."
too tight. 

There is nothing in the middle. But there is something between.

The remnant of a stranger's bullet in your favorite tree
need not rearrange the scenery 
so that even busy squirrel or skittish cat I'd add the word 'a' before busy and skittish.
need climb a desperate thing.

Open love is the only true sun,
and its grinding shadows and sheets
pay as much love as love gives out. I'd write the word "in" in front of the word much.
My books are like that. Too distant to be
rightly burned; but a sabbat and a low kiss
tell the spells in wandering gossip on satyred winds. I'd add the word "the" in front of "wandering" and "brought" in front of "Satyred" just to make it flow.
Some fine panic I'll light the moisture in the moss, I think moving the words after panic down a line would work better.
and wake as from a tent an hour past dawn:

The world awake.
The work not finished,
but getting there. I'd add the word "it's" after the word "but".

There's a loneliness to this poem, as if longing for a companion to fill the void. The emotion is saddening for someone who can understand the feeling well. I like the imagery of flowering hands and the holy egg. The woman is like the ultimate hope, a goal to end the long suffering. It is a poem spoken in truth and has great depth. I've always loved a poet who can admit their thoughts and is unashamed of feelings of pain. We all have it but some seem to hide it more than most because they view it as a weakness and it's understandable but there's a certain beauty in being able to empathize with a person through their art. This is very fine poetry.