Violin eyesviolently violet
minor chord
atchafalaya deep
in the glory
of morning
I can't leave
without the right words
a genetic fault
so I write the
wrong words
knowing
I
can't
leave
yet
my feet on concrete
ten feet high
fifteen feet away
white and silver
a touch of pebbled orange
ten in a row
I shoot
fluid
strings sing in backspin
a perfect bounce
I moved not my feet
like bone and dog
returned
just me
an autumn afternoon
no one to watch
no one to see
no one to care
just me
and my basketball
a touch of leather
replacing
a touch of flesh
a sadness
cistern deep
beyond my understanding
but all the same
pain knows
a way around
so I shoot
nine in a row
missing the tenth
starting over
knowing
I don't want to leave
at home I am
outside
avoiding
the hell that awaits
a door away
nine for nine
always
nine for nine
Reading and Commentary
7 comments:
In months and years to come, if this is where we both still are, and even failing that I know, as one can know things that one cannot explain with logic and reason, 'nine for nine', just that, the title, the strain, will revisit, as it does here throughout the poem, memory, the words may be forgotten, of poem, of commentary, the singular words that is, but the emotion within, from within, and the emotions evoked in response to such nakedness will not fade. Nine for nine, read at that first moment evokes intrigue, by the end of the poem its influence, its significance is immeasurable. Nine for nine, as I write the words, they sound in my mind, and the effect is indescribable, as though in that one phrase, every word written, every word spoken, every ounce of appreciation and admiration (...) that I have for you flows together, culminates, boils. With the words of the poem, enhanced by the commentary, in the phrase are pictures, of what you have described, but it goes further, pieces of chapters, of comments, of conversations, and the only way that I can describe it is that, I imagine, knowing it isn't real, I have seen you, that I have looked upon your face, as you stood there upon the concrete and in your eyes I saw your heart. What this is is writing (and commentary) so open, so real, so penetrative, honest, that you reached forth and showed and the only thing that could cause any distance from your heart to the reader's heart is a lack of corresponding openness. Of ears that do not simply listen.
Posting in parts.
Ms Storm, I'll simply say this: You've been missed. If you could see me now, you would see my tongue extended, my neck craned back, wanting more water, wanting you to pour the whole jar over my open dusty, dry mouth and drench me from head to toe, such is my thirst, my need.
As for the openness, my pain is so great, my torment so enormous, I know nothing other than to open in the hope there is a shoulder, somewhere, a voice, someplace, a hand, reaching, holding--so I open and you see me as I see myself, nothing hidden, seeking affirmation, needing validity.
I loved hearing you read the first stanza, the sounds within are absolutely wonderful, atchafalaya deep, now I know thanks to commentary what this is a reference too, but how I loved the vibrations of this line, just gorgeous as enhanced by the very rounded frame of minor chord and glory of morning. I could read this over and over and appreciation would not diminish.
I'm not certain, admittedly, whether the words were as poignant before listening to commentary but very, very close to certain. It is in the can't. This word is so basic and so complete, so meaningful and definitive. There is no beyond, when it is true, a full stop, a simple, unchangeable fact. I can't as it follows the stanza before it, which strikes a melancholic mood, lends a significance to these words that begins flowing into the soul, into understanding, before the matter of what it is that cannot be is revealed. This part is so interesting, for several reasons. For the insight, not necessarily detailed or with the opportunity for finalization that it offers, for the distinctiveness of this attribute, the charm and the loveliness, the history and ownership (for lack of a better word), in the same way that books remain unfinished and yet not the same. I could sit here for a week with this one stanza.
The shift that you spoke of was understood, that a shift occurred, that here we were coming in so to speak from a different angle.
Sitting as it does between the stanza before it and the stanza after it, it is as an island, land surrounded by an the ocean on all sides. Read alone, without the words that follow, it is a memory as many others will have it, of youthful hours spent. Read alone it has a wonderful sense of nostalgia, of perfecting shots, of the pride, of youth, of being carefree, of living in the moment, moments that stretch to an entire afternoon, of joyfulness. Read alone it is an idyllic portrait. In regards to method and style, how the picture then morphs as detail is added redefines brilliance.
Mr George, firstly and to repeat, there are very few things that could keep me away from here. These past few weeks and the next 1.5 will not be much different. Wherever I am and whatever I am doing, I never come through without thinking about you, something written (as all things said too are) and whenever away, I am always longing to be right here. And so, thirsting is what I am, to read your recent work properly, and by read I mean read and read and ponder and read, watch the image, read in parts, read in full, absorb, be still with and then finally to comment. And though I may get frightfully behind during these weeks, I could not forego a single drop/word, and eventually I will have my fill of each. That is a warning more than a promise. :-D
I am sorry for every ache that has and will touch your heart, sweet, beautiful heart, I do adore and wish that every beat was one of happiness. Were it so that it were within my power. For whatever it is worth, for whatever they can carry, ears, shoulders, hands, heart, friendship. And this undoubtedly will not sound as I mean it to, but I have such respect and admiration for your strength and your openness, were we only all this way, each of us, not unafraid, but still willing, still reaching, still opening. Sometimes we must, yet must can still be infused with caution, I see none of that here, only purity. Purity, though it should be the easiest thing in the world is for many the hardest. I hope it helps to write. And I hope that you may find, always, for that you reach.
Compassion. Empathy. We cannot feel the heart of another, we cannot know what would mean to have their mind, their heart, their memories, their hopes, their disappointments, their desires (and so forth), but how gloriously wonderful is the human character with its ability to feel, to be touched. We can shed as many tears, of joy, of sadness, watching a moment on screen for example as we might in a similar example do in our personal lives. It is magical, and very special. Your writing touches those who read it in a way that compares or exceeds any other example that one could give, whereby one can be touched. When I read the part of your poem that includes the words no one to care, response is emotional and it is physical, it is close and it becomes personal, if that makes sense, it is as though through the magic of expression you are able to transfer, to embed a piece of your heart within the heart of the reader. The mind reads the written words, but the rest, the essence, the substance, the emotion, words said and words unsaid arrives, full impact, and so often I find my hands crossed over my heart as I read as though in acceptance, protection, recognition. I write of this, in such plain terms for I know everyone who visits this page, who reads this poem as it should be read, will react similarly, it is the virtue of your talent and ability, your mind, heart and soul, a true poet, a heart in words saturating the page.
I had more to say, will save it for B.
In regards to the commentary, there are no words. I listened and longed to hug you. You read beautifully. A second listen will no doubt occasion inclusion in that B.
Exceedingly moving post.
I am drenched in your words and it feels as a waterfall on a hot summer day, pouring forth comfort. I think I will read these again and perhaps comment again. So nice to have you back, if for just a few hours. :-)
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