What Are We to Make of It?

The Wrong Questions, Part Three

I.

He finds on a hot Saturday
The inability to form the alphabet
Into words with his bare hands…

The need to stop sweating --
The accumulated noise
Of two musics and the coffee maker.

He has made too much to say
But doesn’t know where to put
His first person singular pronoun

Or questions like:
Who did I have to leave behind
To get to be alone all the time?

II.

Dating back dating back
Before memory
Markers in
Someone else’s book
And me, keeping it vague,
Fighting off particulars

Mistaking misfortunes
Or projections of danger,
Sirens for warnings
In the morning rocks –
Turn off the electricity

…what a public sight,
But I go on in the silent record
Of a private moment

I will pass by Donald Hall’s
Rust as he writes a decaying past,
Not a past as prelude…
I look for a doorstep
Lead up to the house of tomorrow
Get me across the threshold
Out of the gathering leaves.

There are plenty of leaves on the ground this time of year, Peter, and with them faded memories of greener days. Good job here, I enjoyed the read.

Les

Thanks for being such a consistent visitors and commentator on my work and on the works of so many of the other writers here in the forum, Les.

Peter

Peter,

I liked reading this and am particularly drawn to the first segment;
the inability to form the alphabet into words with his bare hands...the accumulating noise...having made too much to say.....and the question.
You often tap into things that are intangible and not easily put into words.

Mary

"And me, keeping it vague,
Fighting off particulars"

oh yeah

Thanks, Mary and Johnny, for visiting and commenting. I like it that the two of you focus not different aspects of the poem.

Peter

"Computers are useless. They can only give you answers"

Pablo Picasso

[www.instituto-picasso.com] />
This is how he sees himself.

Pablo Picasso - The Song

Words and music by Jonathan Richman.

Well some people try to pick up girls
And get called an asshole
This never happened to
Pablo Picasso
He could walk down the street
Girls could not resist his stare .................

Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole

Well the girls would turn the color
Of an avocado
When he'd drive down their street in his
El Dorado
He could walk down your street
And girls could not resist his stare.......

Pablo Picasso never got called an asshole
Not like you
Alright

Well he was only 5'3"
Girls could not resist his stare......

Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole


Oh well be not schmuck, be not obnoxious,
Be not bellbottom bummer or asshole
Remember the story of Pablo Picasso
He could walk down your street
And girls could not resist his stare

Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole

Peter
I like it a lot. Hope it was as good to write as it is to read.

"Who did I have to leave behind
To get to be alone all the time?"
That's the place I jumped in for keeps.

Geat phrasing of feelings that flow instead of jerking you out of the emotions.
The doorstep metaphor sets up a nice finish. A bonus, like a good cognac at the end of a fine meal. Thanks for this one.

Thanks, Steevo, for the careful reading of the text and your understanding of how the poetry works.

Peter