It’s fairly easy to find poetry on the sky (whether it be day or night), a subject often written on for it’s broad scope beyond our breath, holding our bare understanding of what’s above. We definitely have a lot of poetry on the moon (thanks, Carol Ann Duffy), which is regularly married to the themes of love and mystery. However, it’s quite rare we see the focus on the field, the attention for everything else.
The black between the stars is another piece from Brenden Norwood (we featured a poem from Brenden back in October) and this poem is sure to fill your cosmic quota. The imagery of our starry night, and what’s beyond, is brilliant, transporting, flourished by refreshing alliteration. The picture painted by the language evokes powerful, surrealist impressions; I couldn’t help but to imagine a Dalí and Van Gogh combo.
There are two things I really like about this piece. For one, there’s a lot of allusions to the sea, and how the night sky is similar. It’s as if the sea mirrors the sky, both of which aren’t so different when it comes to it, and our little lives are lived in the middle. Secondly, I love how the poem is almost bookended by the same question, as if to further the idea that it’s about the space in between that matters. As well, the conversational tone, akin to good ol’ Bukowski, carries the writing in consideration for the subject depth and intensity, which can often be an overload for the mind!
Another great piece from Brenden, I hugely enjoyed the read, the language, the style – this is definitely one for the Saganist.
Enjoy!
(If you’d like to read more, Brenden’s own Introspection can be found on Amazon)
the black between the stars
there are times
late at night
when people ask me,
with asteroids dripping
from their pupils:
“what is your favourite constellation?”
and, smiling in that half-madness
so often forgiven as
eccentricity
i say,
“none of them.”
for the stars are just markers,
beacon buoys with light
like sooty silver ash:
flicked flames off cindering cigarettes
blazing feverishly in the far alleyways
of the universe, their
smoke
milky incandescent nebulas
breathed by dusty lungs.
but the black in between—
it is possibility
and hope.
the constellations are mere
latitudes and
longitudes,
lines in a boundless cartography:
an infinitely black sea
rippling with tides of time,
the arcs of planet’s rings
slicing
into the void like the windswept sails
of the ships of our souls,
the seafoam starlight shimmering at its very ridges
rippling at its very ridges…
there are times
late at night
when people ask me,
with asteroids dripping
from their pupils:
“what is your favourite constellation?”
Nesbit and Gibley 