Posts tagged ‘poetry from voices’
signs
signs
there were, quite certainly, signs that he was here:
although as certainly
we never glimpsed the promised heavenly lights and
ranks
of ethereal beings…
the story, though perhaps
not quite convincing,
was assuredly dramatic
enough,
with its angelic voices
and descended doves.
the presence, though long expected, never quite
appeared: the pleas
were to an ear if not unhearing, unanswering, the
soul’s
dark nights still unlit.
there is only a rubbish
heap there: and
the unpleasant reminders
and
memories of the people slaughtered here.
names are only names,
no matter how spoken.
that Word he was remains
unknown: and though
perhaps uttered, surely unheard.
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Yes, perhaps, for a long while I tried to represent a loss of faith as that. Mind you, that presumes there was a loss of faith, or knowledge, starting first with determinism or absolute predestination; the terms are either irrelevant or quintessential.
mnemon
mnemon*
this wilted rose
recalls you; its petals crumble at the slightest
touch.
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*”The (‘hypothetical’) smallest unit of memory”, see mnemonic, which is still in fairly common usage.
I had to start on the tiny ones. Soon, MachMag, soon.
memento amour
memento amour
early winter’s trees bare
stripped and sullen
grey-mooded sky above:
this you-shaped absence.
tone poem: shaded light
tone poem: shaded light
lakemirrored sky
fisherman set dreaming
midst wisped fog
and wind-shaped trees
the waters
scarcely stirring…
having pointed at flowers, attempted
unwordy knowledge…
i remember the fisherman,
bright in the misty
flawed refractions
of pure light.
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Okay, so I stole the phrase from music. As such it is wildly inaccurate, correct?
Oops, I forgot to add; I’ll give it a rest for ‘a bit’. Much of this poetry is exactly a breakdown of “Different View”. The difference is in mode. The “assumption” is that language is a direct barrier to the perception of reality.
*No discussions of reality here. …
the blind woman
The Blind Woman
The blind woman is dancing
out on the dimlit floor, shaking
her head
and tossing her golden hair
(i have felt her
heavy, well-kempt
scented hair), her gestures somehow formless,
unknowing.
She doesn’t even know
i watch her.
(I sip my beer, and sigh.)
What does she think of, who
does she see, lost
in her private world?
Later, walking away, muttering silently to my self, i wonder:
who watches my
private dances?
________________________________________
Real. And real.
truth
truth
it seems long since
i accosted the
strange-eyed god.
and, o, the gifts
that he gave me:
all
have brought some joy, and all some pain:
but the worst–the best–
is sight.
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This does seem strangely apropos to me in light of current events–as pure irony–but then I’m prejudiced, I wrote it. It was written as irony in the first place. Well, not pure; I try to cram as many meanings into each line and word as I can.
after the turn
after the turn
After the turn
after the final failing…wordless, you retrace
each movement
toward stillness.
Each line as if written –each word prompted–
you find no
you can find no
change…
though you would,
pride
and time have spoken:
in detritus lies meaning
and corpses must
(at last)
have tongues…
Tear down that portrait, statement, attempt to name
the unpaused, that
alive in movement
only.
After the turn,
after the final
changing…
walk, o walk
(quite slowly)
toward the newsprung, hostile day.
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I would say “not real”, but is there anyone (save last century’s egomaniac and this century’s narcissist) who hasn’t experienced this?
