Friday, November 25, 2005

in transit ive

my mother threw my best work
in a trash bag
at the end of the
front lawn.
I watched it be picked
up
for several years
here, in this part of
my mind.
I imagine there were other
bags
piled together,
heeps of them,
black pliable
memory,
undegradable.
twist
tied.
these bags contained my childhood,
my well constructed essay
from high school sociology class
on
the nature of mass movements
and
now I can't remember who wrote the
damn book
that inspired
it.

I see it
everday
the nature of
masses
recognizable faces
several
mornings
into same journeys,
paths.
fallen heads
shuffling inching dragging
toward
things that must be done;
eyes darting
referent
indices.

my cat's died
since then,
left on some farm
with my dog
(the one I kicked down the stairs once
when I was
angry at
a
stepfather)
to rot
then
give birth;
I dreamt their deaths were
quick, prayed
for power in the
dreaming.

the essay's
no longer read
and
I don't recall
proof
of
grammatical
error.
and television
and books
and strangers
and walking
can not repair
or reinvent
the things left unexplained
to a
child.
the masses must have
it,
so,
in this age
of forgiveness.
here, everything
can be reused and
recycled.

here it is all
reduced.

2 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

This could be a moving pictures, the imagery, but it is poetry, and it is self sufficient. I hesitate to comment on something so personal, lest it insult that I even attempt to understand. Poets are old roads, and register pain more than others, and in a masachistic way we thank that pain for giving us an insight into the true nature of this world. Without it we, and others, would be blindly smiling as we walk over cliffs. I won't comment on the unfairness of life. I had a dream of God showing me two doors available to me right that instant: one Heaven, and he showed me this world. One door was dark and floating grey, the other was bright green. I felt like a fucking chicken even having glanced into the afterlife. Pain is fuel for the soul, happiness smoke. Life blazes but gives nothing in return. Our leisure among it all is art, poetry. And for the poet, her words on paper mean something inside can ease. Our poetry being picked up by public minds, and digested, is trash day, and we can be less littered for the writing. Dare I say this could relate to this work in particular, I won't. A voluntary Spring cleaning gives more peace than the razing of the whole lot... or is it the other way around.

12:02 PM  
Blogger MissWanda said...

Poetry that is self-sufficient. Interesting idea.

Can a poem sustain itself if noone reads it?

Do the effects of a poem on a person entitle that person to own the poem? Or does the author always have first dibs. There is this idea that once poetry is given to the "world", it is no longer entirely the writer's belonging.

Some thoughts.

About the personal nature of poetry: it's always personal, that we know. And it takes a reader to decipher if one poem is just more obvious to them than another. Whether one type of poem should be released unto the world over another is perhaps the significance that drives a person to prefer one poet over the other.

I'm not entirely satisfied calling this a poem, but it's on my blog nonetheless. I may take it off. I may edit it again (it severly needs editing) but for now, I'm okay with it being in the world. It needed to be said at the time I wrote it, and that's something.

11:25 AM  

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