Electric Review

Culture & Criticism Since 2003

Piper At the Gates of Dawn

Original portrait by Eric Ward, © 2004. All rights reserved.

Van Morrison Live On Stage: A Meditation


And the

Cold harshness

Of time


When we hear

Him sing


On stage


Married to

Their wings


Of God

(he wears)

A bonnet

Of blood


Of clouds


Without bounds


Ripe roses

At dawn


The negative moon


Perfect diamonds

Of memory


The poison hungers

Of the mind


The gentle rebirth

Of echoes


He sang


As wind


Pedestrian skies


Beautiful new

Disciplined mind


On each


Every vowel


Words formed faces


Out to

The stage

Where shadows

Knelt down

And wept:


And the caverns

Of the sky

Opened up at

The mouth


Wounds foaming


Holy blood

Of music


Hanging on slow

Motion intangibles


My heart


Hard luck bones


Well-formed smooth


Of jazz

On the tongue


Breathless into

The saxophone howl

Of the

Raw hour


Boiled coal black


The dungeon back


Her heels


Doors flung open


The actual skin

Of the sun


In catharsis


The eye


‘Every Man’:


And the

Icicle echoes


Parallel in motion


Faceted in layers


The parity

Of these

Odd Americas


Mouthed sincere


The whole eye

Of the spirit


The bareness

Of bone


Whole blood


Fresh meat


The edges

Of my mind

In dreams –


And the bowls

of electric

Rivers flowed


Through mirrors


God with

The chains

Of heaven


The demons

From the pages

Of the past


A blank page


An unwritten book


Pickled pure


Like a cattle

Driver’s whip


With passion


Like the cross


Without end


Us of roads


Bold and endless


The sweet snows

Of new worlds


And poems


Me to learn


I learned

About you:


“We learn

From these

Old musicians


Where the

Real roads are


The thirsty

Magic diamonds

Of their blood

In our eyes

When they cough -“

“I know


Sonny Terry

And Brownie gone –

Who’s left?

Morrison’s part

Of the


Guard now”

“That generation died


We lost ourselves”


Morrison sang

To me


On stage


The bells flow

And dance

And breathe


Of deep

Crimson blood


The rusty gloom

Of God’s eyes


The crystal eyes


A song

by John Aiello


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This entry was posted on July 1, 2004 by in 2004, July 2004, Poetry and tagged , , , .
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