Albion
Brit’s troubles, Gwen’s newsThe Republic of Hatay is
off and running. Nanci downs
Buddy, found lovelorn
out on the Five Mile
past Lunar lane,
increments of past lives,
increments of metal pleasure,
call of a wild beyond earshot,
hard rain on the shattered
roof, autoshapes dying
in the day’s violet
bloom. The Book of J,
sez Harold, as only
Harold can, futzing out
this and that, manicuring
the lawns of Wombleshire,
this Blakegnome of orgasmic
wobble, demolition man &
protector of the titular
seed. Ginsberg whines WB,
dodges draft and
Jack, but not the beedy
eye of Burroughs, categories
of Menger snow left unsaid,
categories of the mind’s
own hell, the trigger-finger
rustle of a wife that is no more &
Jackie Seed just keeps thrusting,
visual holocaust in the naked
spoon that unravels night. Olds
mobile and cunning, blood-
stained angels of the Falls.
This shall not stand echoes
down hallways riddled
with doubt, we are all
nestled down in our peculiar
names, our concessions
to midnight, our
vigorous denials
of ancillary light.
Labels: blake, idaho, summerland, william
posted by murat11 at 9:21 PM
2 Comments:
Love the ending here, the way it "nestles down" and opens up at the same time. The way it echoes the earlier "spoon that unravels night." The sound of that, the image, its implications--goes and goes, unraveling into one nuance, then the next...
The whole poem does that. Beginning with the garish newsy catalogue funneling down into "call of a wild beyond earshot, hard rain on the shattered roof..." Great building of sounds from "increments."
Moving into the softer "trigger-finger rustle of a wife that is no more..."
Wonderful dance of abstract and particular/then and now. I keep thinking of the stories of Brautigan, some of the poems of the Factotem. Not in the style but the soul thereof. The loud, clanging sadness therein.
It's great to have a reader out there. You eyes and mind to the lines do me great honor.
There is a great need to return to some longer straightforward fiction right now: I can feel it in me bones, but there's not the silence necessary to get there, in the year's hustle and bustle: maybe spring break. A friend at work went on a sad pilgrimage to see her dying grandfather and fading grandmother, and there was a "loud, clanging sadness" in there that needn't witnessing to. It's all down deep now in the composting pile, no telling the form it will take: for now it simply echoes in the lines that rumble.
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