How everything comes to nothing these days.
You know that Harvey plays his sax too loud
like heís alluding to alternate things, or ways
that broken fingers cannot grasp. And, the shroud
of mystery comfortably cloaking the gasp of an old
woman who saw too much and much too soon.
In the waning light many of the stories told
beckon to the firelight and a slivered moon.
The wafts of smoke intoxicate and burn eyes
crying and laughing at the bright fireflies.
Children playing at seesaw seem to weigh
the fare; and what have we come to today?
The ornate closet door starts to creak ajar.
You see, we havenít really strayed that far.
...it's an abstract concept shoe-horned into a recognisable form. as if to regiment these half chewed thoughts might drag forth some sort of answer. chicken bones and runes not thrown as such; rather they have been put down with a sort of sleight of hand that makes us think we're stroking our chins in an erudite fashion and not scurrying around scared 5hitless because the wishbone looks like the devil's mum... alia did it to the hopi and you've done much the same to the imponderables. i don't know if that is a good thing or a bad thing: i suppose i find that this develops that sort of tension that i quite like though - not quite the itch that can't be scratched; more the cadence of the foundry trip hammer set at a rate that makes it interminable ((sons and lovers: d h lawrence...) he knew what i mean.) anyway, you have this condensate of stuff this jus lie of sorts - it is rich fare in its classical whole but the ideas well, they are only just held in by the constraints of the form you odd bloke. and i daresay you meant it that way. k
I read this book called Voyeurs and Savages by one of our local writers. It's basically about the relationship of Americans and Filipinos during the World Fair - when the whites brought the mountain natives to the Expo to be exhibited - and how it has evolved into what we have now - as Filipino natives start night clubs in Subic where they can watch American soldiers [censored] and get [censored]ed and be animals.
I got reminded of that because of this piece.
Not really because of the fact that we are all the same... but because of the fact that in reality, we've always been the same. We can cover ourselves with clothes and knowledge and WAV tones... but really... it still boils down to the basic things... FOOD, CLOTHING, SHELTER & SEX.
You're always so calm when you express something (at least, from my point of view.) I like that about you. You are always so poised... and elegant in discussing your emotions. Some times, it seems a bit ambivalent... but really... it's just age, isn't it? Another article of clothing.
Still, that won't change the fact that it looks good.
I really liked this poem because it not only respected classic rules, but the imagery was just out there. It's like this fantastic journey, as you've mentioned it to be, with all these interesting sidetracks, and bizare cultures that lead to your own unwelcoming beginning. If you looked at life as a line, well then everything can be traced back to them same origin, but the question is... has anything really changed? And if you look at life as a circular thing, when will we break the perfection of 360 degrees? I've written a piece that sort of attacks this idea but from a different angle, Circles , if you ever care to read it.
A few ideas that came to mind while I was reading this piece were: The jazz character in the simpsons, a young girl from a third world country watching her father die - this being on TV, watched by you and I comfortably at home - the light post in narnia leading them home for the first time. The only thing that rang weirdly was the 'at seesaw,' maybe you could replace at with on the.
One thing I liked was the implicating of both parents in children, by the mention of a man, a woman and children... They could all belong to the same family, living out these random things in their house... Anyways... I'm incredibly tired.. and garrulous.. so later!