Ossuary

[Leanne]

It is the bones.
 
It is the rattle and crack of what remains
as the caws of the corvids scrape across tar,
crying for flesh; feeding their young.
 
The young remain
forced into the thousand crosses
of Calvary; bound as the countless
virgins frozen under the hands
that will raise them to whore.  
 
Our nests are thorns dipped in gold.
Old temples crush the new
and call it charity.  Images line the walls
of the grave.
 
Miracles run black over
withered palms; the sheep eat the shepherds
and are reborn in the mud.  All eyes turn
to mirrors: the images diminish.
 
When you see the blow, you know
it is not for you.  Your hands are pressed
together and your ears are filled
with dirt.  We are not crows, to sift
through filth to thrive.
 
In the end, it is not the bones
but how you break them.

[CRNDLSM]

I thought I read this in another forum a time ago.
After writing it out and rereading it a few times I'm fairly confident someone could write a 25 page essay analyzing this. 1 page per line, tempting 

It is the bones.
 
It is the rattle and crack of what remains
as the caws of the corvids scrape across tar, caws scrape? I can handle that, but I don't know where the tar comes from. Picture dinosaurs sinking, which in my mind fits the subject but dinosaurs don't fit.
crying for flesh; feeding their young.
 
The young remain
forced into thousand crossesinto a thousand, thousands of, or is Thousand Crosses a thing?
of Calvary; bound as the countless
virgins frozen under the handsof course you can only sacrifice the innocent, but I don't understand it sounds like all the people being killed at calvary (innocent or not) is equivalent to whoring them out.  Being killed to me is more like being directly raped, a stretch from the long road of teaching someone promiscuity is good.
that will raise them to whore.   Although, calvary and raise go great together.
 
Our nests are thorns dipped in gold. thorn and gold like a christian crown were born into 
Old temples crush the new
and call it charity.  Images line the walls call it charity, this is my favorite line, but what is old and what is new? Isn't it usually the other way? Although the old Roman Jewish ways trampled the new christians, much like I currently want to trample scientology
of the grave.I'm getting lots of images already, aside from the images diminishing later, I don't understand you're inclusion of the word images, the ones in my head are vivid through the end.
 
Miracles run black over
withered palms; the sheep eat the shepherdshow jesus can it get? Withered palms of old age hands, or withered palms like the ones that greet him in jerusalem, sheep eating shepherds and being reborn in mud only makes sense to me because of golGotha and Jesus followers putting him to death to be reborn.  I cant get my thoughts straight here in so little space, seriously, a whole page per line!
and are reborn in the mud.  All eyes turn
to mirrors: the images diminish.
 
When you see the blow, you know
it is not for you.  Your hands are pressed
together and your ears are filled
with dirt.  We are not crows, to sifti love this whole stanza
through filth to thrive.I'm watching the torture and blinding myself to it at the same time.  This is amazing correlation, like you're telling yourself you don't need to do these things (mind wading through filth), even though for crows it's life
 
In the end, it is not the bones in the beginning I thought 'it' was addressing the feelings from inside the ossuary,
but how you break them.  I picture vultures throwing bones over cliffs to break them enough to be eaten completely.

[Leanne]

Cheers Crundle

I missed out "a" for "a thousand", thanks for the catch.  I don't want to close interpretations for anyone just yet, but the tar I was thinking of was a road.

I really appreciate your reading, it's fascinating.

*on second thoughts, "the thousand" works better than "a thousand".

P.S. I did post it the other day but pulled it down because it wasn't quite ready. I hope you haven't read it anywhere else because I only wrote it on Thursday

[Todd]

Leanne,

I always come to a poem like this one and think what does this mean, and then I'm carried away by choices in diction, certain phrases, and I find myself less worried about puzzling it out and more interested in being moved by the imagery. I'm not sure how this will work as a critique but let me give you some of what I was considering as I read.

It is the bones.-You use a lot of Christological imagery and so from the title to this line I began thinking of tradition. Specifically, I considered Matthew 23 and the idea of the Pharisees being whitewashed tombs, beautiful on the outside but inwardly filled with dead men's bones. That wasn't on the first reading though. The first reading reminded me of tar pits and animals preserved under the surface. The phrasing made me think of structure. We're meant to move to carrion but there's still this idea of young and old and surprisingly it plays against type as the old is what is overcoming the new. 
 
It is the rattle and crack of what remains--didn't like the "it is" repetition here. I think it might be stronger just starting with "the" This is a wonderful line though. I love the use of sound. It moves away from skeletal structure to remains. Crack could imply injury but to me it read more like carnivores cracking the bones. There was something more threatening implied than just age--though it is subtle.
as the caws of the corvids scrape across tar,--I love the alliteration here. Corvids is a great word.  I don't know how I feel about the caws doing the scraping though it sort of works for me when I join it to the later crying for flesh.
crying for flesh; feeding their young.
 
The young remain
forced into the thousand crosses--Thousand feels like one of those hyperbolic large numbers to represent an innumerable amount. Nice break on remain. So to hook the young to Calvary there is an implied sacrifice. I don't get a redemptive read from this but I do get a sense of substitutionary atonement. A sense of the young being sacrificed for the old maybe--possibly a metaphor for tradition grinding young innovation or creativity.
of Calvary; bound as the countless
virgins frozen under the hands--really this image and phrasing. The religious imagery of virgin mother/Whore of Babylon. This idea of binding the young instead of freeing them. There is a sense that this is what's being sacrificed in the Ossuary.
that will raise them to whore.  
 
Our nests are thorns dipped in gold.--Again a sort of crown of thorns reference. Maybe a sense of materialism a lavish consumer life style that actually causes harm rather than giving comfort or community.
Old temples crush the new--Another reference like above, a cracking of bones. Tradition, the way things have always been crushing the new and defining what happened in a positive way.
and call it charity.  Images line the walls--Iconography, Plato's forms
of the grave.--and we likely mistake this grave for something else.
 
Miracles run black over--Like the tar above. I distrust these miracles. The palms being withered make this seem more like an aged conjurors fortune telling then something we would call a miracle. This is the burrying of things deep beneath the surface. This is also something being called charity.
withered palms; the sheep eat the shepherds--Great progression. Sticking with some of the earlier allussions. The shepherd was eaten by the sheep metaphorically. It's an interesting reversal. This rebirth in mud is less ascension and more degradation.
and are reborn in the mud.  All eyes turn
to mirrors: the images diminish.--They can no longer perceive the nature of the grave.
 
When you see the blow, you know--Nice little rhyme.
it is not for you.  Your hands are pressed--Yet it sort of implies that the blow may hit them anyway.
together and your ears are filled--Nice break sort of an Isaiah thing this people Keep on listening, but do not perceive; Keep on looking, but do not understand.
with dirt.  We are not crows, to sift
through filth to thrive.--We should be above this. A call to live above these things. Nice
 
In the end, it is not the bones
but how you break them.--It is not the traditions but how you break them. 

I'm sure I may be going away from your intent. I enjoyed the poem though. It was an interesting read that captured me for awhile.

Thanks

Best,

Todd

[Leanne]

Love your reading Todd, thanks. At the moment I'm leaning toward keeping "it is" but I'll keep thinking about it because you do have a good point.

[Achebe]

It is the bones. ...just my POV, but I think it reads better without the 'it is' eg. the bones - / the rattle and crack of what etc. (though even here the two 'thes' are painful...)
 
It is the rattle and crack of what remains
as the caws of the corvids scrape across tar, ... 'across tar' is a bit tricky on the tongue, at least mine
crying for flesh; feeding their young.
 
The young remain
forced into the thousand crosses
of Calvary; bound as the countless ...I wonder if instead of a direct reference to 'Calvary', which come across as a bit heavy handed to me, it might be better to reference a 'hill' or something of that sort. I like the idea of what are presumably war graves as bringing to mind the crucifixion of the young, and the overall idea of Calvary, just not the direct reference.
virgins frozen under the hands ....the enjambment in the above line is unexpected and works very well
that will raise them to whore.  ... I didn't quite get this. the hands of the state? the hands of fate? neither will necessarily raise them to whore
 
Our nests are thorns dipped in gold. ... I assume this is a reference to the writer's generation, not the dead men's
Old temples crush the new ...didn't get this
and call it charity.  Images line the walls
of the grave. ...overall, this strophe is a bit of a comedown from the previous
 
Miracles run black over
withered palms; the sheep eat the shepherds
and are reborn in the mud.  All eyes turn ... would it sound better without the 'and' and a comma in the previous line?
to mirrors: the images diminish.
 
When you see the blow, you know
it is not for you.  Your hands are pressed
together and your ears are filled
with dirt.  We are not crows, to sift
through filth to thrive... on its own, a nice strophe. could be its own poem
 
In the end, it is not the bones
but how you break them. ...I'm not a big fan of executive summaries, but that's just me

I liked the build up to the second strophe, but thereafter found it hard to follow.
Thanks for posting.

[RiverNotch]

there's a whole host of sounds and images here that feels just perfect, but otherwise this feels directionless. not ambiguous -- this is sort of ambiguous, i think, but not in a bad way -- nor lacking in narrative, in the sense that not all poems should have a narrative, but the central argument here, "it is the bones", is left, it seems, to stand on its own. "it is the bones"....what exactly is it? "it is the rattle and crack of what remains..." which could very well be what "it" is, but the sounds and images coming from those lines show that they are meant to be yet another detail of it, not an explanation of what "it" is, or how "it" relates to anything.

* - below: also, though "crying for flesh" sounds strong, and "feeding their young" feels like a necessary image, the two together and not properly fused just diminishes their power.
It is the bones.
 
It is the rattle and crack of what remains
as the caws of the corvids scrape across tar,
crying for flesh; feeding their young.*

and then the next two stanzas. i think "images line the walls / of the grave" crosses the line, in that such a host of macabre images can eventually get cloying, so that i think the point of that sentence would be better stated directly. also, the comparison between the young and the countless virgins feels nonsensical, since in this case i think virgins implies young -- and these logical nits do grow heavy, especially in a poem that seems to rely more on an argument than a narrative. but otherwise, these two stanzas are lovely work, and if it weren't for the sonics in the previous stanza, i'd say the poem really starts here.
The young remain
forced into the thousand crosses
of Calvary; bound as the countless
virgins frozen under the hands
that will raise them to whore.  
 
Our nests are thorns dipped in gold.
Old temples crush the new
and call it charity.  Images line the walls
of the grave.
 
and these two stanzas don't need much changing (i think if "images line the walls" were made more direct and less macabre, "the images diminish" could still work), although that presence of a third**, now totally disconnected "it" does return me to my original problem. there are definitely lots of solid sights and sounds to this, and if i were more industrious i could spin out an interpretation of all this based on one thing or another, yet that would i think be too intrusive to a piece that claims to say something (it is the bones --- it is not the bones / but how you break them) but ultimately doesn't (again, what "it"?). i'm not exactly demanding this mean something external, as in the piece crystallizing around some Christological or political message, but again, "it" means nothing even to the internal logic of the poem, and with everything hanging on "it", that lack of meaning breaks the entire piece.

**fourth, although the third "it" was buried in the middle of the line, so i don't think it has as much thought.
Miracles run black over
withered palms; the sheep eat the shepherds
and are reborn in the mud.  All eyes turn
to mirrors: the images diminish.
 
When you see the blow, you know
it is not for you.  Your hands are pressed
together and your ears are filled
with dirt.  We are not crows, to sift
through filth to thrive.
 
In the end, it is not the bones
but how you break them.

[Leanne]

Thanks to you, Achebe and RiverNotch. I'll take your comments under advisement.

[billy]

lots and lots to enjoy. if i try i could tie myself up with this one looking for it reason/reason so i'll just comment as i see it without too much thought. the title ties the poem to Catholicism as do some of the references below. the end couplet for me expresses control.
calvary, thorns, virgin. cutting to the quick. we've been bent and broken in order to fit into what ever box religion wishes to squeeze us into, when i say religion i include government schools and all other means of do it it just so or else.

It is the bones.
 
It is the rattle and crack of what remains
as the caws of the corvids scrape across tar,
crying for flesh; feeding their young. for some reason this opening reminds me of poe's raven; [not it's opening mind]. corvids is a great choice and works a treat with the other K sound, the other assonance in this stanza also works well.
 
The young remain
forced into the thousand crosses
of Calvary; bound as the countless
virgins frozen under the hands
that will raise them to whore.   i see the children take the yoke, forced to do; forced into boxes, which works well with the title.
 
Our nests are thorns dipped in gold.
Old temples crush the new
and call it charity.  Images line the walls
of the grave.
 
Miracles run black over
withered palms; the sheep eat the shepherds
and are reborn in the mud.  All eyes turn
to mirrors: the images diminish.
 
When you see the blow, you know
it is not for you.  Your hands are pressed
together and your ears are filled
with dirt.  We are not crows, to sift
through filth to thrive.
 
In the end, it is not the bones
but how you break them.

[Leanne]

Cheers billy -- and yes, institutions of all kinds are at fault here.

[just mercedes]

Hi Leanne - I'm still finding new layers in your poem - especially after seeing the video. Funny that, usually I don't like images with words, but yours worked well.

I'm a bit thrown by the narrator's identification with the scene - at first, dispassionate summary, then in stanza 3 the N is identifying with the scene described as 'we'. In stanza 5 they again step away from the scene, 'you', and back into it, 'we'. Then out again, at the end, with 'you'.

I think it needs to be constant. 'We', all the way through, lets the reader identify with the narrator as well as the scene. 'You' begins to feel like a lecture from an omnipotent observer.

[Leanne]

Hmm. That's a good point but it really complicates S5 --

When we see the blow, we know
it is not for us. Our hands are pressed
together and our ears are filled
with dirt. We are not crows...

It's the singular blow that bugs me. Maybe "Blows fall, but we know/ they are not for us" ?

Pondering.

[Tiger the Lion]

It is the bones.
 
It is the rattle and crack of what remains
as the caws of the corvids scrape across tar,
crying for flesh; feeding their young.
 
The young remain
forced into the thousand crosses
of Calvary; bound as the countless
virgins frozen under the hands
that will raise them to whore.  
 
Our nests are thorns dipped in gold.
Old temples crush the new
and call it charity.  Images line the walls
of the grave.
 
Miracles run black over
withered palms; the sheep eat the shepherds
and are reborn in the mud.  All eyes turn
to mirrors: the images diminish.
 
When you see the blow, you know
it is not for you.  Your hands are pressed
together and your ears are filled
with dirt.  We are not crows, to sift
through filth to thrive.
 
In the end, it is not the bones
but how you break them.

Happy Birthday Leanne.! 

Always loved this one. Thank you for everything. 

[rayheinrich]

Happy Birthday Leanne.! 

Always loved this one. Thank you for everything. 

    Yes

                Happy Birthday Leanne!

[crow]

This makes me so sad

[JamesG]

Just going through some of the poems here, as I am new, and this one in particular is fabulous, but I can't help noticing the R.I.P under Leanne's name. Does that mean what I think it means?

[Bunx]

Wow..... I love her writing..... Rest in Power
What a treat.... Not to be even remotely egotistical... but I um almost died a number of times while....um manic last month.

Knowing my mind is on here in some fashion is a blessing. Thank you Leanne, I know you don;t prescribe to angels...Thank gawd, for the pigpen

[Tiger the Lion]

Just going through some of the poems here, as I am new, and this one in particular is fabulous, but I can't help noticing the R.I.P under Leanne's name. Does that mean what I think it means?

Gifted poet, patient mentor and cutting humorist. You can find a few answers here...  
https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-2226...ght=leanne