When I grow tired of the dawn
and the sound of birds
hold nothing in the morn
I pack my clothes
for a trip
not of car
or plane
nor train
Come if you like
Come in waves
matters not much
to me
for the view from prone
doll eyes
and suit too loose
is not me
I'm not here
so kiss and cry
but not of me
for those days
are gone
Hug the neighbor
Hug the niece
Hug the nephew
and try and comfort
a fear you can't reach
a fear not of today
not of tomorrow
but the cellophane fear
of faded tawny
of yellow fly paper
of water heated on the stove
Ponies may run
on burnt fields
and wood may burn
in ashen places
as tractors churn
fields fallow
cheeks sallow
to match farm teeth
and nails chipped
on the anguish
of eyes that failed
and arms that failed
and minds that still can't
fucking understand
The day is faded
and the grass agrees
stiff as cloth
smelling of moth
balls, tight
walnut shrunk
of knowing
not of
but of not done
not called
not written
not thought
so what do I say
now
fuck you
6 comments:
I read, read and wish that we could spend a day together with each of these poems (have read four so far), a day with each, read first, sat with, embraced, felt, mulled, tasted, taken, and between the quiet filled with the above, a comment, here, there, complete, incomplete, spoken with words and wordlessly. This poem is a day at the very least. Back after the first three, suffice to say for now, catapulted to wow.
These seven or eight poems were written as drops of blood from a heart cornered and scared and bewildered, as a wild animal caught in a trap, confused, still alive, but not knowing the way out, not knowing if there is a way out. As usual, I didn't much intend to write anything last night and what I have written I've not much read (so forgive the typos) and, as the one who bled the words, not much sure I wouldn't want to erase those few hours and erase these poems and erase the memory of me.
Leave them here and we will watch over them, for though the heart is one, the drops yours, the hours spent, love and thoughts are yours to take from all who read them, and perhaps in those ears and hearts, in those voiced and silent thoughts, you will find a reason that you can appreciate (take something from) for them to remain. As deeply as you touch, I hope you will feel touched.
Nice thought and perhaps in time. Right now, I feel numb as if my body and soul, and I do mean both, have been saturated with novocaine and I am just a pair of eyes floating, no ears, no arms, no body, just a pair of silent eyes receiving waves of light.
Heart aches to hear your words and I feel my own nothingness, wishes, desires, hopes without the means to realize, wish, desire and hope nonetheless I do that you find comfort, peace, what you need, what you wish, and I offer the only thing I can, love, hugs, ears, shoulder, yours should you ever need them, yours anyway.
Language, in the word itself an example, say it fast, say it slow, mouth and tongue and mind move over it as it melts into soundlessness the flavour of its contours leave an aftertaste that makes the mouth water still. In the word, the meaning rises, the wonders of communication, of how it was created, what it can achieve, not just in fact, but in conveyance to heart and soul as well as understanding. This poem is language, the kind of language that lends shivers, that floods with fascination, appreciation, love there for, like an anchor pulling down, mooring the consciousness, telling of the infinity, time behind, time forward, the touch that needs no hands. These words, as they are put together, especially within recent readings of you, are contoured, it is an action, realized by the form, to move over them as surely as it would be to move over hills and valleys of land, I may be spewing here in my attempt to find words to precisely express what it feels like to move over this poem, like liquid one feels, water cascading over rock, every nook and cranny of sound wetted. Am so in awe of the language, I think a part b will have to come later in regards to the rest. Abso*lutely amazing piece.
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