Writing as catharsis

Figures.

Posted in Poetry, Prose by Lachlan R. Dale on January 8, 2012

The figures move in slow, measured oscillations around the centre; heads bowed, faces shrouded in coarse cloth.

As they move, they utter a deep, unhurried mantra. Their voices catch on worn vocal chords; the gravel of their ancient words filling the walls that surround with a rich, droning baritone.

Their steps are almost noiseless; imperceivable if not for the occasional presence of stray grains of worn rock that give the slip of bare feet on ancient stone. Yet in the chamber their masonry din seems as if a persistent, weathered roar.

Despite the languid pace, each movement speaks of power and restraint; as patient and measured as the grinding forces that shaped the face of the earth over millennia past.

Their ceaseless motion admits no ultimate goal; only the infinite reverence of droning minds attuned to the slow, pulsing vibration of existence.

Theirs is a prayer eternal; a humble apotheosis to echo through the ages; an example to all entangled in life’s web of irrelevance; a redeemer of the human soul.

Theirs is no god. They assume no affront to the properties of the manifest divine. They bask in simple humility to that which is beyond contemplation and beyond conception. Through their veneration they escape the boundary of transient existence; beyond the realm of the mind and the material to where their very essence lays.

As the earth begins to darken and cool, the core maintains its pulsing warmth. The figures drone on, timeless in the light of the dying sun.

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2 Responses

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  1. Thomas Davis said, on January 8, 2012 at 2:32 am

    This is really beautiful, especially the last stanza. Sometimes prose poems are as strong as any other kind of poem, and this one qualifies for the praise. In addition to the beauty is a meaning that swirls into the droning chanting that is at the heart of the poem.

  2. Lachwhip said, on January 8, 2012 at 2:40 am

    Thanks mate. This marks my first conscious attempt at poetry for a very, very long time. Over the last few days I’ve been remembering an extended poem I wrote around 9 years ago. I’ve lost all trace of it. This was sort-or borne from that.


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