Blue Herons

[matsunosuperfan]

Blue Herons

The world used to be charged with grandeur, some
of which was even God’s, the bisoned plain,
the clouds like artifacts tracking their progress
through men’s eyes, hollowed bones and strings
of endless generation, hills that shimmer
when the wind waves grain across their faces
as a mother folds her cub away
from cliffs as stark as milk—not any more
than seconds in the cosmic memory,
our scampering about between the legs
of taller trees, and still whatever lake
we launched a boat across to get here breaks
each morning with a shattering of wings
too loud for us to notice or ignore.

[rowens]

Blue Herons

The world used to be charged with grandeur, some
of which was even God’s, the bisoned plain,
the clouds like artifacts tracking their progress
through men’s eyes, hollowed bones and strings
of endless generation, hills that shimmer

'God' and 'endless' are pulling/holding their weight, lightly.
That's the best way to massage poems with those words.  


when the wind waves grain across their faces
as a mother folds her cub away
from cliffs as stark as milk—not any more
than seconds in the cosmic memory,

Here we are subtly letting science take its ground. 

our scampering about between the legs
of taller trees, and still whatever lake
we launched a boat across to get here breaks

The rhythm here is a throwback to your figurative segues. 

each morning with a shattering of wings
too loud for us to notice or ignore.

The shattering of the very location and arising of meaning, experience.

[RiverNotch]

The world used to be charged with grandeur, some
of which was even God’s, the bisoned plain,
the clouds like artifacts tracking their progress
through men’s eyes, hollowed bones and strings
of endless generation, hills that shimmer
when the wind waves grain across their faces
as a mother folds her cub away
from cliffs as stark as milk—not any more

I sense the same break between the lines above and the lines below as rowens here; in fact, it's rowens's reading that finally got this piece to click. The lines above are 'charged with grandeur', the lines below are 'not any more then seconds in the cosmic memory'---though if that reading is right, then there might be a bit of confusion involved. 

'some of which was even God's' feels wrong, insofar as all of it was God's. As in, the 'grandeur' of the past was universally seen as divine, the very concept of grandness itself was divine, even among those interpreters of signs that didn't believe in a personal God or gods.

'the clouds like artifacts tracking their progress through men's eyes', 'artifact' just evokes to me something too technical or scientific for this section.

'hollowed bones and strings of endless generation' is, to me, just great, but mainly because I'm reading a book on Blake, and 'generation' has a whole other meaning (though one that's fully compatible here) in Blake's poetic system.

'hills that shimmer when the wind waves grain across their faces as a mother folds her cub away from cliffs as stark as milk' is also great, and great all on its own, directly conveying 'grandeur'. 

than seconds in the cosmic memory,
our scampering about between the legs
of taller trees, and still whatever lake
we launched a boat across to get here breaks
each morning with a shattering of wings
too loud for us to notice or ignore.

The break could be sharper here. 'not any more than seconds in the cosmic memory' is sharp, but it gets dampened by 'our scampering about between the legs of taller trees', where you should be minimizing both the speaker and the trees.

And the final lines are "mundane" enough of an ending (even with 'breaks each morning with a shattering of wings'---it's certainly "mundane" compared to that business with the hills) for the piece to both settle down and, as per 'shattering', to still have a bit of tension. The shift to modernity, perhaps, has given us something with the same semblance of grandness, something that, at least in the world of this piece, is tinged more with horror: a great abyss, rather than an all-encompassing field of warm and brilliant gold.

[busker]

Blue Herons

The world used to be charged with grandeur, some
of which was even God’s, the bisoned plain,
the clouds like artifacts tracking their progress
through men’s eyes, hollowed bones and strings
of endless generation, hills that shimmer
when the wind waves grain across their faces
as a mother folds her cub away
from cliffs as stark as milk—not any more
than seconds in the cosmic memory,
our scampering about between the legs
of taller trees, and still whatever lake
we launched a boat across to get here breaks
each morning with a shattering of wings
too loud for us to notice or ignore.

I don’t like the first line, with its throwaway Hopkins reference not subsequently followed up on
The section below is beautiful, is the poem.

men’s eyes, hollowed bones and strings

of endless generation, hills that shimmer
when the wind waves grain across their faces
as a mother folds her cub away
from cliffs as stark as milk

From “not any more”‘onwards, I lose track of what the author is trying to say.
Where does the sentence begin and where does it end?
What taller trees? The clarity of S1 is lost in the imagistic mire of S2

[matsunosuperfan]

Thanks for all these notes, I def plan to lose the first line as generative scaffolding. Also think the second half is a bit meandering and vague, want more precise payoff. Will work with this one I think. Appreciate the readings <3