poem: side the tender
for esther
Heading to Nada tomorrow
sampling the road-weary pilgrims,
dodging the sheer cliffs of fate,
tangled sunflower sympathies
angling for the better view
the deus ex machina that
whimpers beyond the bass notes,
in the dire dreams,
straits of gilbraltar,
over the top
disarray, but you
need the secrecy,
the solace of
one time past all
return &
by your side
the tender touch
of a smooth talisman,
calculated oblivion:
this was the last time she
entered the web of
the black prism,
forgiveness down
the arroyos of desire,
bastion of final
exacerbations, nether
possibilities of the ancient
rhymes.
Labels: this one
posted by murat11 at 11:32 PM
11 Comments:
Great words here: "sheer cliffs of fate," "tangled sunflower sympathies," "arroyos of desire," and a "bastion of final exacerbations." Y nada mejor que un "deus ex machina that wimpers!"
The song was kind of melancholy, and your poetry really fits the mood.
Sista T: No accounting for the poet's moods and behavior. I'm sure Esther's trip to "Nay-da" is all about fun and merriment, but the poet is not easily reined in.
Perhaps it's on account of the nihilistic cross-lingual connotations of the Nay-da/nada name... It almost sounds like a trip to nowhere, especially with the gods crying up there.
The sky is cryin', cher. Look at the tears rollin' down the street.
there are so many great lines in this. I love the dodging of sheer fate cliffs, the tangled sunflower sympathies (reminded me of Anne's photo), the whimpering man-made gods.
"the last time she entered the web of the last prism" - I may have to steal that...it begs to grow into a story!
Then...the possibilities of ancient rhymes"
Yes.
Rolling to the gutters, to the ponds, to the streams, to the rivers, to the sea where they are lost in the ocean of formlessness, no hint of their former selves except two h's and an o.
Dee: Plagiarism be damned! Literary theft is the highest form of praise. Steal the whole damn thing and put it in your garden.
Teresa: Lovely little poem, that.
The repeated sounds in your poems always get me, get past whatever it is that insists on "making sense", and let me just feel the words, the gorgeous accrual of images; in this case, mournful, aching, beautiful. Am beginning to understand why you pair every poem with a picture and a song.
Upon rereading it, I'm thinking the last bit should read "except two h's and an ever-essential eau."
Amen to your sentiments on literary theft... but not theft of term papers.
Anno: I'm glad you're willing to forgo sense when reading my poems, and since they are in essence collages, the addition of picture and sound has long seemed all part of the organic process. I recently re-clarified the way in which my poems are "action poems," in line with what Pollock called his "action paintings." There was no plan: something provokes action; paint (or words) follow. They are virtually all prayers and invocations (of a kind), hence the impulse for repetitions.
T: Though I will not give in to the temptation, I suspect your term papers would make for some tasty poems.
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