Word Of The Tree

[mark1tc]

Word Of The Tree

The merchants came
with the sudden breath of dawn,
hauling the stench of oils
and the bawl of chainsaw engines,
and the limbs of the tree
fell in heavy pieces
onto the red and stoney ground.

In the sigh of its burning,
the tree renders
a dry and gentle song.

The trash man weeps.

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.)

  *****

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.

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-)

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.

  *****

One night,
the trash man’s daughter
awakens to hear weeping.
She wades a dew
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

this poem.

mtc26

[CRNDLSM]

I really like this, but 

Word Of The Tree

The merchants came
with the sudden breath of dawn,
hauling the stench of oils
and the bawl of chainsaw engines,
and the limbs of the tree
fell in heavy pieces
onto the red and stoney ground. The merchants brought the chainsaws?

In the sigh of its burning,
the tree renders
a dry and gentle song. I love this gentle contrast to burning, it's life going

The trash man weeps. Trash man weakens it a bit, I can't break away from franks wrestling character in always sunny in Philadelphia, I can't think of a better descriptor name though, garbage man is too formal, trash man too informal, id cut the line 

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

He weeps for his daughter, the trash man weeps, 
who sings and thrives
on every fruit of the tree,
knowing she will die
without words. His daughter is not the tree but in the same vein

(Here, too, the leaves
will be first to go,
brittle and pale,
with dark veins.) Not chopped and burnt

  *****

The trash man possesses 
but a single magic. The story is shifted here

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. 12th moon is like astrological Christmas, referencing nails in the tree/eve/Sunday, but trash magic 

  *****

December sweeps its hot bristles
across the Greater Antilles. I like this descriptor, December is supposed to be cold where I'm from but is usually hot anyways

Jamaica swelters;
from the shacks of Riverton
to the yards of Cherry Garden,
Kingston town breathes ras. Im not familiar with Jamaica or ras but get the spirituality through here

Here, at the corner
where Hope meets Old Hope,
the trash man labors
in the arms of the tree. The tree that's been chopped and burnt? The merchants already 

(-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-) This seems like the trees perspective loving someone who loves it back, but almost too human, almost too different from the rest that it seems out of place, the parenthesis helps

His art rasps with color,
chimes metal hollows,
bribes jerky shapes into
wings and tails: the trash mans art with the arms of the tree? I'm getting lost

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. More good imagery of the setting

  *****

The trash man measures
the change of seasons
as the craft drizzles
free from his treasures. The trash man keeps throwing me off, obvi one mans trash is another's treasure but...

  *****

Roots black as Jesus
reach to God's Own Heart. I love this, I don't know why you need all the asterisk dividers

  *****

One night,
the trash man’s daughter
awakens to hear weeping. The trash mans weeping at the trees removal?
She wades a dew I don't get this line
to find
the fifth moon sounds like spring and new life
embraces
the tree.

The tree is sad with fruit. Very lost now, the tree weeps? The trashman is the tree? Night? 

Her fingers
tremble
as she plucks
and unfolds
from the tree

this poem. This poem kinda ruins it for me, since you are the author, does that make you the daughter or the tree or the trash man? Could it be any poem?  The word of the tree being life, I dunno.  Makes me think of self inflating purpose, wish I could help, love the idea though

mtc26

Thanks for sharing

[wasellajam]

Hi, Mark, plenty to chew on here. A lot of this could work both worldly and heavenly but you don't quite let that happen. Some notes so far:

Word Of The Tree

The merchants came
with the sudden breath of dawn,
hauling the stench of oils
and the bawl of chainsaw engines,
and the limbs of the tree
fell in heavy pieces
onto the red and stoney ground.
Strong imagery although "Merchant" (I was looking for axemen or foresters) and "red and stoney ground" (that may just be me not having trees growing out of that) were stumbles for me before the rest of the poem tweaked it for me. Same for the double "and" before the biblical cast. Nice hauling/bawls.

In the sigh of its burning,
the tree renders
a dry and gentle song.

The trash man weeps.
I wanted a word other than trash here until I thought about how everyone expects Jesus to sweep up after them. Ha, another "eep" word. I'd prefer no period here, the break and white space does the work and it would keep the next lines from being a fragment.

At the smoke of its roosts,
at the heaps of its ashes,
at the great trunk standing
naked and black
on a bright morning.
Roost instead of roots is interesting. Weeps/heaps is nice.

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'm not sure the () add anything.

  *****

The trash man possesses
but a single magic.

The twelfth moon bursts
whole on a Sunday.
Lovely lines.
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.

Here, at the corner
where Hope meets Old Hope,
Love these lines on many levels, the layers of a town, life, basis for religions.
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-)
I don't know why both the -- and ()

His art rasps with color,
chimes metal hollows,
bribes jerky shapes into
wings and tails:
I haven't been able to parse "bribes jerky".

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.
Fun imagery. But do gods make art of what we perceive as sins? Is that what you're saying or have I gone astray?

  *****

The trash man measures
the change of seasons
as the craft drizzles
free from his treasures.
Haven't gotten this yet.

  *****

Roots black as Jesus
reach to God's Own Heart.

  *****

One night,
the trash man’s daughter
awakens to hear weeping.
She wades a dew
to find
the fifth moon
embraces
the tree.

The tree is sad with fruit.
I don't really get this line but enjoy thinking about it so okay.

Her fingers
tremble
as she plucks
and unfolds
from the tree

this poem.
So, the poem flies all over, I'm not sure reminding me that it's a poem suits. Maybe "these words" or something else.

mtc26

I find this poem interesting in form, language and meaning. Ambitious work, thanks for posting it.

[matsunosuperfan]

Word Of The Tree

The merchants came
with the sudden breath of dawn,
hauling the stench of oils
and the bawl of chainsaw engines,
and the limbs of the tree
fell in heavy pieces
onto the red and stoney ground.

In the sigh of its burning,
the tree renders
a dry and gentle song.

The trash man weeps.

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.)

  *****

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.  I made it to about here before losing interest

Jamaica swelters;
from the shacks of Riverton
to the yards of Cherry Garden,
Kingston town breathes ras.

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-)

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.

  *****

One night,
the trash man’s daughter
awakens to hear weeping.
She wades a dew
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

this poem.

mtc26

this poem is much too static to justify its present length. you will lose a lot of readers pretty quickly if you don't have a captive audience. don't think I would give this the time of day in the wild. 

poem starts promisingly enough but doesn't go anywhere. one gets the sense after a few stanzas that we are just kind of engaging in the language of romantic pastoral for its own sake. I need a lot more syntax variety, some kind of interrupting action, and less floaty description unattached to a motivating throughline of narrative or associative sense for me to sustain this short, aggressively figurative/abstracting line. 

I enjoyed the textures and sounds in the first stanza. After that I rapidly lose steam and things start to feel both familiar/expected and vague/unmoored.

[mark1tc]

Thank you for the kind, thoughtful and constructive comments and suggestions! I am grateful for your time. I shall endeavor to see that this effort persevere in some form or another.

[Sean Puckett]

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

1781747895[/url]']
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

[mark1tc]

Hello Sean Puckett - Thank you for the thoughtful critique. Very helpful. I am grateful to learn elements in my effort are seen. As noted above I will continue to ponder and work on this poem in hopes that someday I will be happy with what I am trying to say. The comments I've received here will help.

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

1781747895[/url]']
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

[busker]

The poem has a lot of images. It does a good job of showing
What I have a problem with is the narrative
I can’t link the trash man to the various scenes, to the tree and so forth. Why a trash man? Why would he weep? Why does he pop up everywhere? I’m sure the answer is there if I think about it enough, but the poem is too diffuse and vague to make me want to do that. It’s word pictures, but the poetry is lacking

---

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.


Like this. The line endings are random and it’s a list. A mildly interesting list, perhaps.

[mark1tc]

Hi Buster - Thank you! for taking the time to read and comment on my poem. I will consider your comments when I approach any rewrite. BTW - 

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

The poem has a lot of images. It does a good job of showing
What I have a problem with is the narrative
I can’t link the trash man to the various scenes, to the tree and so forth. Why a trash man? Why would he weep? Why does he pop up everywhere? I’m sure the answer is there if I think about it enough, but the poem is too diffuse and vague to make me want to do that. It’s word pictures, but the poetry is lacking

---

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.


Like this. The line endings are random and it’s a list. A mildly interesting list, perhaps.