A prose poem: Rain

I am the rain. I’ve been falling all over life ever since I can remember. I can be gentle and I can be fierce. Purposeful. Relentless.

Every drop of me has to give life to a seed longing for water in order to spring forth. That hasn’t done much to contain my liquid nature, but then again, why should it?

I run through and over things; I fill every recess, every small hold; I run through cracks and splits; I run in earth channels and on body paths, spaces between muscle and bone, folds of skin so smooth. 

I run down cheeks, sometimes disguised as tears, sometimes simply to mingle with them, hide them, be tears, rivers of them. 

I run in floods or in trickles. I wash away sorrow, roadblocks, filth, barriers, pains, memories, old stuff. I pave the way to new things.

I am the sweat of the universe. I bring forth the ancient, the old. I hold arks full of life, I am full of life myself. I am everything, liquified. I am Apsu, Poseidon, Ol’ Man River, I am most of everything of substance, and in my innermost resides life’s desire: to meet with light, to spread myself thin under the sun, to sizzle in his gaze, to metamorphose.

Ah! To be part of the light! To fill the arid desert with diamonds on a midsummer Sunday noon!

I play with the sun. I dance through his rays, I hover while they hold me and mold me into rainbows. I lick the red soft skin of a poppyflower with the sun inside me, so full of pleasure I could just dry there. I quiver on the tip of an oh so fine blade of grass, holding him, deflecting his light, curving the whole world on my surface, a potion fit for fairies and butterflies.

I have games with the sun. I get all misty, I play hide and seek, I block his light with heavy curtains, but I can never win. I come from earth, he comes from space. I am strong but he is powerful. And over my wildest ecstasies forever hangs an olive branch, flies a dove.

I am ultimately his, like everything.

I am the rain.




3 responses to “A prose poem: Rain

  1. George Konstantinidis

    The poem has a well structured plot. It begins in a very affirmative way: “I am the rain.” Next, it builds its story in a series of similar affirmations which have the momentum of flux. The story is about us, our life and its paradoxes. At one moment we feel sorrow and at another our tears are swept away and we are filled with joy as we pave the way to new things.

    The regular repetition of the word “I” helps us identify with the rain. We loose ourselves entirely in the abundance of its substance and power. Its journey: “… through cracks and splits… between muscle and bone…” soon becomes our journey. This journey is not mindless. It maps the essential characteristics of our being. The rain confesses that: “… in my innermost resides life’s desire: to meet with light, to spread myself thin under the sun, to sizzle in his gaze, to metamorphose.”

    At the end of the story comes the recognition (acknowledgment) or anagnorisis which, according to Aristotle, every good plot should bring. The rain admits (acknowledges): ‘I have games with the sun… but I can never win. I come from earth, he comes from space. I am strong but he is powerful… I am ultimately his, like everything.”

    The poem begins and ends with the same phrase: “I am the rain.” The last phrase of the poem is equally affirmative as the first and thus we are assured that recognition does not mean submission. On the contrary it characterizes one of our most “advanced” forms of knowledge!

  2. George Konstantinidis

    Aristotle defined anagnorisis as “a change from ignorance to knowledge,” (Part II: Section A.3:d. Recognition). Anagnorisis is also a moment in a play when a character makes a critical discovery (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anagnorisis).

  3. George, thank you for your extremely precise and very thoughtful analysis. I’ve bounced this poem around a lot, and I’ve had a plethora of responses, but none as accurate as yours.
    Be the rain, George.

    PS, I forgot to say; I wrote this text supremely drank, after a bout of bar crawling at a miserable time in my life, at 4 am. I wasn’t completely aware of what was being scribbled, I just let it scribble and read it next morning (or rather, later that morning). I didn’t have to change a thing.

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