a stock of terms
time, you say this, disparate motion
this boat we're on, for instance
a careful taper
its patriot fell
it comes to me, your affectation for reproof
to nominalize the void (the word;
we used to play that game)
this constant need for renaming things
part 1, divisions, part 2, meaning (with, and lack
the city is shocked by you, Alcibiades
its winged messenger leads
to that water's edge, retreats
how idle the bare of mother
hold back now
fathers turn to fathers
a purse divvied up amongst the bold
the prophet
or the poet
sown
**I've decided to enlist comments from those of you that read this blahhhhg. Does this poem "make sense"? What am I talking about? How does it make you feel (available alternations: violated, violented, venerated **n.b. only "v" words please; unless you subscribe to the free association school, in which case, where the hell's my newsletter?)? Come on, don't be shy.
this boat we're on, for instance
a careful taper
its patriot fell
it comes to me, your affectation for reproof
to nominalize the void (the word;
we used to play that game)
this constant need for renaming things
part 1, divisions, part 2, meaning (with, and lack
the city is shocked by you, Alcibiades
its winged messenger leads
to that water's edge, retreats
how idle the bare of mother
hold back now
fathers turn to fathers
a purse divvied up amongst the bold
the prophet
or the poet
sown
**I've decided to enlist comments from those of you that read this blahhhhg. Does this poem "make sense"? What am I talking about? How does it make you feel (available alternations: violated, violented, venerated **n.b. only "v" words please; unless you subscribe to the free association school, in which case, where the hell's my newsletter?)? Come on, don't be shy.
posted by MissWanda at 11:57 p.m.
3 Comments:
this poem makes me feel sad.
this is a challenge!
thoughts:
Time/history is arbitrary, but those who believe in the voyage front the ship like George Washington, the tip of the boat, the "controller", the pretentious believer, who falls, because it is false, at the crossorads, the meeting, meet of the taper where it falls off, of history and its sharpened point-- the now. He, standing there, who's fallen, who tries to say it is for some "Heaven", or goal. He who nominalizes his mis-step, creating purpose where none is. And there is a lack of meaning, life, we rename every action from its true base, meaninglessness, to "quest for..." and things of this nature. Alcibiades, the traitor, the self-admitted seeker of purpose, the changer of sides "for right"... who knew not, but who had passion to fight for good. And the city, the "man", the institution who rejects him, flying to one extreme then the next, in perpetual search of accusation and blame. And the unknowing mother, who gives birth to both warrior sides contradictory, the meaningless of motherhood because something, good or bad, right or wrong, will exit the womb and be loved by her. And the "men" (could be women too), coming to this knowledge, reproduction futility, homosexuality just as meaningful/meaningless, just as meaningful as meaningless procreation... and poets born of this knowledge, prophets bringing forth the fruit of this knowledge. And the confusion, I feel, this all brings to society -- knowing it to be perpetual meaninglessness...
Perpetual meaninglessness and the search for meaning therein.... brilliant.
Well hey, thanks for playing.
You are real close to what I'm trying to say here. Time seems to exist and then not exist. We divvy it up, force ourselves into it all unnatural-like, and then plop out a bunch of junk to appease this "time", to feel accomplished, and what-not. What we're missing is that time should not control us--we're smarter (supposedly). (In fact, this could explain why I'm typically late for things.)
That's time. Then, I go on to discuss the shaky boat we're in; how precarious yet particular we are in our rocky lives. How we add meaning to nothing, and then nothing to meaning. The opposites of things is something I like very much to play with. We're never entirely aware of what we're doing. It's fun to pick out the in between parts and force them to further scrutiny. And, as a country ("its patriot fell"), or even just a large mass of something, its "togetherness" can fall apart in an instant. We betray without thinking, as an instinct almost. It's wild to think about.
Second stanza makes a statement about relationships, since we all have those whether we want them or not--it seems to be some innate part of the human condition to not want to be alone every waking moment. Imagine. Stanza "relationship" ties into rest of poem's main theme here too. I just brought it down to a personal level. People receive parts of poems in different ways, I believe. I wanted everyone to get something out of this one. Relation is key.
The renaming goes back to what I was saying about the opposites of things, and of time. We all seem to want to progress. If progress was an animal, it would be a dog chasing its tail.
Now, to Alcibiades. He was another Greek character I'm reading about who was supposedly some beautiful human being. He got all drunk one night, took his buddies out, and smashed up the city's statues of Hermes, the messenger god. Hermes was pissed. What Al didn't realize was just how bad he'd fucked up. Hermes was also known as the psychopomp, meaning he was that guy who carried the dead souls to the river Styx, where another guy, Charon, would take them to the underworld (if they had the proper amount of coinage covering their dead eyeballs). So, I imagine Al, when he passed on, didn't exactly get the golden treatment, and Hermes leaves him at the water's edge, not putting him into the boat. What's the result of this? He doesn't receive comfort, a comfort from a mother's breast, as he once did (assuming mother is in Hades, perhaps a statement on the non-existence of heaven...). How idle her breast has become. And what a betrayal of son to mother, her giving life to him and his behaviour keeping him from an honourable death. My statement here is how the world is turning from that 70's childhood I knew, all warm and respectful in small town New Brunswick, to something foreign to me. How (and now the last stanza) we are all stupified, know not what to do, and simply hold back for lack of a better idea. And we DO have better ideas. Why isn't anyone thinking of em? I know, no "time". So, in the confusion of these new times, fathers turn to fathers, where before they'd turn to their wives (etc), and within those structures there is still confusion (we can't seem to break away from), and these answers, one can only hope, are being divided amongst those who'd take up the challenge. In the end, it's only encouraging more poets to figure out this mess, so maybe it can't be all bad...
Yay, poets are necessary!
And "Perpetual meaninglessness and the search for meaning therein" yes, that's part of what I was getting at. Excellent.
Til next time,
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