Poetry Is Making and Seeing
'cold air
on the sill
close the wind-
ow portal of the day'
the poem has the pedigree of a mélange
or a stray dog sniffing
turned over trash cans
for illumination
our European knowledge of china has come via latin and french and at any
rate the french vowels as printed have some sort of uniform connotation
what is needed in San Francisco?
ask in the bay and in the tenderloin
a little curtsy on the sidewalks
of the financial district would also help
and a schedule of farmers’ markets throughout
while putting the books away
and letting the words speak: arigato
said to the bank teller and
to the broad smile of the guard
we heard the chorus
of beautiful voices
from intelligent women at the gallery
and were thrilled at our entrance
into paradise
all in the service
of ‘making’ an aesthetic life
in lieu of the ethical
or the life of action…
an either/or for another millennium
my friend complains
about eternity
but then writes poetry
and offers tea
instead of a deck of cards
copyright 1955
and still in print
making the circle into a circus
in a salient solitude of delight
and rage and looking forward to…what?
that tight muscle
in the bottom of my back
makes me want
in the middle of plenitude
the glare of afternoon
below the shadows sings
reminds the lazy mind
of skies without birds
nests without pollen
regrets without the pine and the oak:
a land lost to stillness
and a city not quit sure
it will not turn mad
with the next electrical blackout
leaving automobiles stranded at street corners
fire trucks hoping for a flame
traffic turning and turning
and relief only with the end of the day
or steal silk
for the bath
and let my conscience
boil over
with ease
I listen for
water in the afternoon
and am satisfied
bitter tea
Creeley made the occasion
forward
a cliff before
traffic
rushed beyond
what yes-
terday could imagine
someday
to sing you
love songs
in your own Esperanto
I heard an unfamiliar voice
say unfamiliar things
about Egyptians and gods
I did not know
and felt comfort somehow
that I too could enter
the world of the unknown
without tearing my pants
the naturalist
takes delight
in each turn of
detail
to what can be found
here
now
where weeds grow
trees stand aside
slightly
even lost scissors
come back
when I am looking
for a poem
it does not always
end
on its own
My definition of poetry might be that poetry is more saying than seeing and more writing than making. But aside from that I like the read here, Peter, especially this:
the naturalist
takes delight
in each turn of
detail
to what can be found
here
now
Les
Somehow you didn't surprise me on this one. Glad you had a take on it.
cheers,
Peter
Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 06/23/2011 08:12PM by petersz.
Pete, this would be a dull world indeed if we all saw things the same. Variety is truly the spice of life.
avanti
Les