at the end of the road
the bridge soars into the white light.
Unyoked Sweeney in glass slippers
tries to ford the moat
listless in golden greaves
and seedy overcoat
all that he’d learned by rote
discarded
by the Christmas tree
on the wharf
by the run down church
where they are building the whore house
for the thieves.
often he would think of Chinese poets
sailing into deep chasms
while the river whispered
by the spot he’d found
next to the dumpster
on the construction site
where glass fell from his pale blue eyes.
Often, in the history books
there would be lists of names
though the smell was never the same,
once, he’d thought of a tissue
that would linger in the air.
Often, the cluster of nuns
descending
would disturb him.
(his idea of art
was to picture Jesus
in a mini-skirt
talking to children
in a parking lot.
The lisp was the difficult part.)
it was called the church st. usury blues
he drank a lot.
They propped the dead poet
in front of the cardboard shanties
where Li Po grew up chasing kites,
Sweeney often thought of the day
the Emperor came
and Le Guerre sealed off the town,
no explosions occurred that day
but there were rumors of wars
and bombers flew overhead
shiny in the sun.
He nailed Nikes to the cardboard stucco walls
and someone called it Art,
but Sweeney just wanted to know
where they were
if he went out.
Jesus wore sandals
and when Mohammed died
his were enshrined,
Buddha wore hardly anything at all,
and Gucci hadn’t been born yet.
There was a time when there were no poems,
only songs.
Mostly, they were sad.
In a list
A contest entry
- For My Favorites Only by Nam.
375 points, ended April 12, 2007, 6 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 22 of 22
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Ouite a remarkable poem. Truly poetic and a delight to read.
~Snappy~ -
Thanks for your entry
Interesting direction to take this in. Nice flow and structure. Good imagery. Very artistic interpretation.
I encourage you to keep fighting for the peace. Be an example and a light for God.
God Bless
Tammy
Erase the Hate
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A view from the ground!
Thank heaven for Google. I figured the location had to do with the World Trade Centre. Your poem shows an informed knowledge (ie. Sweeney...) of particulars of this catastrophe which catch me up ( I am not of the USA), but with some research I begin to see what you have crafted here.
Not sure that I would totally understand your write as I would need to be more familiar with particulars. I do however understand enough to appreciate your poem for the thoughts and images it evokes as I read. As with many things in life, it is not essential to be intimately acquainted to like it. My favourite part was that of nailing the Nikes. So easy to misinterpret one's actions. An adventure, to a time when words were unable to give expression. All the best to you in the contest. Jadon
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Excellent poem you have written here.
El Diablo in disguise.
Congrats.
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"he drank alot" the word "alot" would be two words "a lot".
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There's almost too much said here to absorb it all, yet it's simplicity begs for understanding. No poems?... only songs? It's hard to imagine a world without either, both play such an important part in our lives.
Your poem is strong, carries a clear message and is undoubtedly one of the best things I've read on this site.
It looks like this is part of a series? I must check out the others.
Good luck in the contest
ramblin
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Another urban delight beautiful in a tragic way. Great start meanders a bit remains unresolved but no need is there? Learning to appreciate the relationships you make.
A poem with a sense of place despite itself.
-df-
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Today, you are known and we'll live to see your works/writes valued...one person at-a-time!
Brilliant write.
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So empty it's nearly depressing. I'm afraid it doesn't agree with my personal view of things. In my eyes there were poets long before there were songs. Sad, sure, but also hopeful. There's no world without hope. This poem is timeless if its imagery is not. Its feeling could be anyplace, anywhere, anytime. Well written.
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A place with no poets, a world without need of words, a time when there was no love and no hate, just life. Interesting view and strong write and maybe more of a statement on how things really are more than the way the were.
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This was an excellent adventure for me. It took me places that were I just never thought about.
I must agree with all the other comments and just hate repeating all that they have said..
Your work on this piece is astounding and truly a statement how things are.
Thank you for sharing
Soulful Woman
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Wow, how very empty, shallow, so well-described, take heed, I give thanks for my freedome of expression.
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Well told story of when there were no poems. How very sad to think of a world with no poems. I feel poems add so much more to our world. It made me feel sad as I remember many poets were not published till after they died. Very well told it does draw the reader into the world and how it might of been at that. You have done a great job. I would not of thought about this till you wrote about it.
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This is like an epic - very profound. These words cause one to ponder and think about what message you have conveyed in these magnificent words. Such a fitting and raw ending. There was a time when there were no poems - such a travesty in just that itself. Then you add that there were only songs, and that they were mostly sad. Really quite a brilliant poem!
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There are still kids with no shoes, barefoot and biafra-bellies ..... but not only in Africa... but in the cities, with the drunks, the addicts the whores and there is this easy street... with slickblackened tarmac that swells with blood, glass and beerbloated bodies.... ... and the fucking polititians don't give a fuck....
the plight of many fed by the few...
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Christ.
There are ridiculous poems being published today, ridiculously stupid for a massively stupid world. I feel sorry about that and I feel sorry you are not being read by the same stupid people buying those stupid poem books about shit that means nothing. But
then again, Eliot said a poet is about a generation ahead of his time. He will only perhaps have a few contemporaries that "get" it at the time it is being written. You indeed are a poet, my apologies and sympathy. For the most part that means you just won't be rich and famous in your lifetime -- but fuck, just keep writing Lute -- you make me weep and smile and weep with what you see, feel, say.
No one has yet mentioned the address as the site of Ground Zero. And there is that little church that survived.
Li Po yes, The Wasteland, yes. Right Now, yes. Indestructible. Yes.
This feels like the last poem that I'll ever read. This feels like the last poem in the Bridge/Cathay series. This feels important.
I'm sure it will be ripped apart by the Host the Artist formerly Known as El Diablo for plethora of things and actually that will be an excellent critique to read because he is of the Now (but I know he also appreciates the art of poetry). I will read it over for critical comment after contest - but good luck and don't ever stop thinking. Except when you have other things to think about.
Lisa
Lisa
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"There was a time when there were no poems,
only songs.
Mostly, they were sad."
god i love that close, great piece....
al
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I'm wearing hardly anything just now. I find the less I wear the larger my member appears
when it appears at all
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This story is epic, yet told in so few words. This is a singular talent. I am so glad I added you to my fav's list. I was about to hemorrhage from "I was wronged and I'll never love again..." crap. Thanks, bro. Three more bunnies for this.
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