Tuesday, December 30, 2008

It is best to make no claims
about the essential nature of things
For see how the sky becomes doom,
how quickly all art fails.
No made thing, no words can name
no name can last. The wicked metaphors
lick a race up the labyrinth bark of trees
but we only think our music has prepared us -
no - lank, unworthy forms
a flaccid wall brief around us
it cannot tell. One in a thousand notions
are pure, and you know we do not speak of these -
At least, not to each other.
A mild grave, that pall of heavy blows
the first comes clarion, sharp as air and a lucid tongue
While still the dimming drives down the lighted sky.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

not that i don't like this poem -i do- but i cant figger out if it seems to me that youre straddling the fence between abstraction and coherence(having recently spent time on the coherent side of the fence and found its sylvan groves to be most verdant?) or if that metaphor does you injustice and in reality you've forged a happy fusion, exacting familiar form from a luscious arabesqe dream. or, OR... maybe i didn't even read the poem.

8:35 PM  

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