Thursday, January 18, 2007

PT: They Never Told Me Not To Go There


They never told me not to go there,
and there is a certain holiness in repetition.
I am not innocent:

I know where the body's buried
and what goes down at every streetcorner.
What comes up is always waiting there

pinched and brown as a scroll
of inkstained goatskins, a chant unrolled
upon a stick--the poetry of innocents

awaiting judgement. The left hand
never knows the right hand's doings.
I recall the phrases written there.

The priest intones a litany,
a sort of requiem: Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison,
Kyrie eleison--filaments of innocence--

the price of repetition, and of waiting
without conscience. But there's a price to pay.
They never told me not to go there,
I am not innocent.


(picture: Guillermo Gomez Requiem, GaleriaDante, Mexico)
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10 comments:

Anonymous said...

Reading this is like visiting the old churches in England. I'm fascinated and a little frightened and definitely in awe.

Anonymous said...

And thanks for your line this week - I loved using it!

pepektheassassin said...

Thanks. And you're welcome.

Anonymous said...

This is the line I chose too! I liked the way you wove the theme of innocents throughout this. I conjured up quiet cathedrals in my mind.

Crafty Green Poet said...

Lovely, I like the way you've used rhyme and line breaks in this and just the right amount of repetition.

Anonymous said...

Pepek, a villanelle! This is excellent! Love "There is a certain holiness in repetition" and the layers of meaning.

This is why I love Poetry Thursday, because I am constantly amazed by the talent and skill of poets like you, my dear.

It's a near perfect poem, P. Nice job!

Anonymous said...

Wonderful. You always get the mind moving.

Tammy said...

Well done! I loved the prompt I'm just bummed I was so busy.

Left-handed Trees... said...

Dark and sinister and, yes, beautiful...as others have said--certainly conveys a strong "place"...enjoyed this one.
Love,
D.

Anonymous said...

the imagery in this one is perfect for the feeling evoked: pinched and brown as a scroll of inkstained goatskins ... Kyrie eleison -- filaments of innocence -- ... there is a certain holiness in repetition. The way you begin and end this evocation with "I am not innocent." You are the writer. You are not innocent. But even more important, you are innocent. oh what do i know? just that your words today strike home/heart.