Gleaming Spires...

So I'm in an advanced poetry class this semester. We were assigned to pick one of the five or so poems we read during the first class and write a poem inspired by that...and this line "the spires of that gleaming kiln" stuck with me, kept coming back to my mind over and over, much as it did to Gretel in the poem "Gretel in Darkness" by Louise Gluk. Anyway, here is what I've got so far. I foolishly volunteered to be one of the three people who's poem will be workshopped today in class so I'm a bit nervous, but on the other hand I'm pretty excited too. I'm not feeling that great about this poem, other than there are some strong images in there, for me at least, and I am interested to see if any of them got across.

Also I haven't thought of a title yet.

We circled up as the smoke rose

above gleaming spires of fire,

burning logs spelling out our names

with thrown sparks and embers.

Our names were free,

set free, let loose,

we loosed ourselves into the wind.

We followed each other,

the spires of that gleaming kiln followed.

I can’t think well enough

of that day turned into night,

the night that seemed to last all day.

Strangers sharing substances unnamed

and nameless—new communities

joined for twenty-four hours and no more.

Looking at glass crafts—seeing the spires

of that gleaming kiln through mind’s eye—

we connected to each other, felt our hands

without looking, and held conversations

without speaking.

I close my eyes and see spires of smoke and light

rising up. They seem to go on and on without end,

touching the clouds that shield the stars

from our view. This memory has happened

so many times I can’t tell if it’s from last weekend

out in Idaho wilderness with a few hundred friends

and family gathering to buy, sell, trade

items and stories, or if it’s from any of the Labor Day

weekends spent at the Gorge with thousands

of fans, all gathered to see DMB play

on the cliff’s edge—lights and fog

filling the stage and floating ever up and out.

Lights and smoke draw us in, moth-like,

and we are enchanted. We keep these memories

the way smoke and lights kept us close

during the dark nights.