Word Of The Tree

[Sean Puckett]

This poem is a kaleidoscope of deep feeling. Both physical and mystic. 

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Word Of The Tree

The merchants came
with the sudden breath of dawn,
hauling the stench of oils “Stench of oils” is such a great and grungy feel. 
and the bawl of chainsaw engines,
and the limbs of the tree
fell in heavy pieces
onto the red and stoney ground. Big fan of the feel here. 

In the sigh of its burning,
the tree renders
a dry and gentle song. Getting both the sound but more importantly the scent of a felled tree. Chefs kiss 

The trash man weeps. Though I’ve seen others comment. Not to disparage them. I think trash man is simple and clean for who he is. 

At the smoke of its roosts,
at the heaps of its ashes,
at the great trunk standing
naked and black
on a bright morning.

He weeps for his daughter,
who sings and thrives
on every fruit of the tree,
knowing she will die
without words.

(Here, too, the leaves
will be first to go,
brittle and pale,
with dark veins.)

  ***** I don’t necessarily feel the work needs these asterisk breaks. 

The trash man possesses
but a single magic.

The twelfth moon bursts
whole on a Sunday.
He whispers
the scripture of Eve
as he nails
to the gnarls of the tree
all he has ever held
to be beautiful,
that he might keep
all he has ever loved.

  *****

December sweeps its hot bristles
across the Greater Antilles.

Jamaica swelters;
from the shacks of Riverton
to the yards of Cherry Garden,
Kingston town breathes ras. Love all of this. The town breathes its own kingship. Breathe fire my breddah

Here, at the corner
where Hope meets Old Hope,
the trash man labors
in the arms of the tree.

(-my God thats mango
smeared across the hairs
of his chest see he me
we tree three be the
madman Lion Perhaps
Judah skin dust to dark
earth damn hot-) voice of the tree? Voice of life? I and I see much overstanding. 

His art rasps with color,
chimes metal hollows,
bribes jerky shapes into
wings and tails:

Chromium-coated
hubcaps and bumpers
turn in the sun,
brightly painted boxes
and dull plastic sheets
flail in the wind,
kitchen utensils dangle
on long wires, a window
frame rests crooked.

  *****

The trash man measures
the change of seasons
as the craft drizzles
free from his treasures.

  *****

Roots black as Jesus
reach to God's Own Heart. These lines hit like a thunderbolt. Right in the rib cage. Love it

  *****

One night,
the trash man’s daughter
awakens to hear weeping.
She wades a dew I falter a bit here. Wades in dew? Through dew? The symbolism thickens a bit much 
to find
the fifth moon
embraces
the tree.

The tree is sad with fruit.

Her fingers
tremble
as she plucks
and unfolds
from the tree I like how this trails down. Like she’s reaching so hesitantly in the words themselves 

this poem. I can see how the work leads up to this. But after all of the intensity this line falls a bit. Saying “these words” might be a bit difficult because many would wish words to follow and the order may seem odd. Something else to reference that this message itself was left. “Unfolds/from the tree/my words” not necessarily that. It’s just after so much. I don’t know how to express well, “this poem” doesn’t land as fully as it could. It’s SO CLOSE though. 

mtc26

Aside from a few critiques (especially feeling the asterisks might take a bit away from this) I am sorry I don’t have the words to critique more deeply. The interplay of deeply rich symbology mixed with intensely descriptive down to earth language makes for a very deep piece. Mythic intensity tempered by the firm imagery of a land I have not visited physically but can feel it in the words. What else can I say. I freaking love this poem