The Dazzling Oppression of the Real #3

Jude Dillon Presents: Jared Riley Jenkins

jared black and white

*

When the night

 When the night takes over my kindness

and I take over the bold singleness of my soul,

I knew there was no love beyond a bluebird perched on a morning branch.

Love’s not a refuge

when you have other means to complete you.

Love is not love

which boasts

of its fidelity and reason.

I have no use for the fallible glory of definable spheres

which level off my intercourse with the mystical journey onwards.

Love’s commerce: the down payment of heartbeat on heartbeat,

the primal mating call without languor.

Do not begrudge me, it’s all we’ve got –

the spins, the spin – still, meet me in the morning, still

meet me as the sun sets.

Feast from me when I have nothing left to reach you with.

A single line of poetry will hold us –

            a lair of soft gold, pliable.

Love without touch,

held up.

A single copper penny,

in this day and age,

is monumental.

Beyond Arrival

 As I slowly move towards blindness

all I can hope for is a love beyond arrival

when so suddenly it never thrills to be.

I am hypnotized by Portuguese narratives.

I’d rather read a thousand novels

than fall in love again.

Words faint before these eyes

as truth sings in the morning,

but I cannot rise.

When all I desire is satisfied,

I begin to moan at what’s been falsely tried

and know that miles pass.

When all we conceal as knowledge has been written,

then,

and only then,

do the hollow idols begin to knock down the front door.

It’s a visceral carcass of faith: it’s all childhood fanaticism, anyways.

Today we wander listless, unable to silhouette our words without rhetoric.

Beyond our control they continue to mock the disciples of speech

            and all we can do is hope for a love beyond arrival

            as we slowly pace ourselves toward blindness.

I do not belong as love

 I do not belong as love suited in spring.

I should have been a blasted star at the height of a dream.

As of late I’ve had a hard time of it.

As of late I’ve tried to make my way onto greener pastures.

            It’s these waking hours of want and need

            that will not reason with good intent.

Am I not entitled to be an advent visionary? a seeker? a man of certain repose?

It’s true that I should have made a complete turn around

and taught the better of me to surrender and refrain;

I should have been more than mere possibility.

It’s a matter of redress:

            I’ve never been true to anyone

            but O the habits I’ve kept.

            Monday through till Sunday I’ll pound away through the heat and rain.

            Brick and mortar, brick and mortar, I’ll live a long life.

My footfalls will always be one step behind my greater sense of purpose

but out of the heralding clairvoyance I will reap

and on my back I can’t but carry the seed forward

like an offering

or the release of all.

Process

 let me burn in antiquity

dip me deep in a divine gasoline canister

now strike a match

now let my words turn to ash inside your mouth

Abandoned Railway Lines

            I

As distance becomes age

I long to open the eyes forever

and never dream again.

            II

Seldom is a heart so fond of its own breaking

that alone it plays host to every burning instinct.

            III

I’ve never let go of being led.

            IV

Our love was just a stroke of luck.

            V

Will you never pray for my safe return, I left ages ago?

            VI

Can you stand the sound of five diamond miners trapped below ground?

For all the gold in the world

I wouldn’t put that ring on your finger.

            VII

I love your sincerity and the way you breath life back into me.

You have the weight of my world in the palm of your hand.  

            VIII

This is the part of the story where one is able to deny what seemed dearest.

            IX

Everyone you love is a version of me.

I am a hundred men

and will be two more by tomorrow.

            X

Everything about your weakness is cruel to me.

I wish I could claim victory over your defeat.

            XI

I’d sacrifice both night and day

just to get the joke I’ve missed.

            XIII

It’s been raining since midnight.

 

            XIV

And all I truly wished to see

was an honest days work

from every human hand.

Lengthen my strength

 As a child, doing childish things,

I sensed your beginning and your end.

There were no words needed to prostrate myself

but lonely in the paroxysm did I begin to scour the earth for your graspable presence.

I lit unkempt graves on fire,

smoke signals of the lifeless: your dead, our dead: raised

and let go – soil and wind now.

As I watched all your other troubadours get laid to rest

you held me back and grew to be my torturer.

Tonight, eaten by the godly boon,

wedded to the mount borne stone,

I let it victory be.

I dream of the man to become

and warrant him all my powers.

Tonight I aim to foster the release of all they say I should keep.

In all that you are I ask you to allow me the patience

to lengthen my strength for forgiveness.

Bio: Poet, railway man, marathon runner and sometimes world-shaker, Jared Riley Jenkins lives in Calgary, Alberta, and spends most of his free time immersed in American poetry, Russian novels, Eastern philosophy and Utopian socialism. In 2008 he graduated from St. Mary’s University College with a B.A. in English and for the next six months you can find him backpacking through pagodas in and around Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos and Myanmar (Burma). The following poems are from a small collection entitled Saving Away the Forms of Seduction: 11 Poems for Jillian.

*Photo Credit: Jude Dillon

4 thoughts on “The Dazzling Oppression of the Real #3

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