Small Study for Cape Kiwanda, North, Pastel, by John Cummings
UNDER THE AVALANCHE
is a shallow creek of air, and his hands
on his stomach, his hair turning cold.
a lick of the ice, taste of clover and freshest
light. whiteout darkness. he can roll by
inches, turn churchward. prayer
melts his snow tourniquet, exposing blue
bruises. now there is room to groan
and shout, but he can’t bring himself to do either.
entombed in panic but not discomfort, he doesn’t
have to hold tight to heavy questions.
whatever they know, they know.
______________
Kristan LaVietes
Review by Jared Pearce
The poem makes me think of “Odour of Chrysanthemums,” which I think is a good thing. I especially like the haunting the last line invokes.
Review by Massimo Fantuzzi
I almost wish I hadn’t gone down that rabbit-hole—and yet—and yet—it’s rather curious, you know, this sort of life! (From Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)
Great metaphor for everything that is overwhelming and oppressing, the avalanche we daily bury ourselves under, the almost restorative avalanche that comes to relieve us from our incongruous enterprises and contradictory ambitions. Trapped in ourselves, stuck in our own company and tasting our own fate, luck of clovers.
Perfectly depicted here are what could well be one’s last gasps of air and last struggles. Maybe last, maybe not; what is important is that in that suffocating, claustrophobic whiteout darkness we experience at home, workplace, or street, the heavy questions disappear, and with them, the old arguments, beliefs, discomfort. Panic, not discomfort: a surely paralyzing, hectic, yet welcomed numbness. Entombed, we can finally let go. Only the living waste time in these antics, we are serious, we belong to death (from Antonio De Curtis, La Livella). Buried here, we have dropped our worries, arguments and pursuit for answers; the search is off, time has expired. Under the quilt of this sepulcher, we leave the big questions to the ones who still choose to walk above the ground, in search of something, in touching distance, lost, meters and meters above us and slipping away. As previously mentioned the boundaries between cure and death get fuzzier and fuzzier. To die:—to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to: ‘tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. (From Hamlet).
Review by Kathryn de Leon
This poem is very short but so powerful. A man has been buried in an avalanche, but he is still alive with “his hands on his stomach,” clover and ice might be keeping him alive. He can “turn churchward,” great line, all he can do is pray. He’s probably freezing to death, there is no “discomfort,” it’s said that one just goes to sleep when they freeze. Rereading the poem a few times, I’m thinking the avalanche could be symbolic for someone’s life crashing down on them, either way, it’s a great poem. I don’t understand “whatever they know, they know” but this doesn’t affect my enjoyment of the poem.