“Untruth to willed moment.”
declining to “accept the easy way, the one / that’s offered”,
when they get in the car at the end of the movie
aren't they also beginning--so to take pains,
to note something directly into the diary,
despite the lie,
to hope piteously that someone will see
that they knew what time it was,
that they apportioned "cock"
as in familial, an incest, it should have happened
according to size, as it would have been more modern
and yet it has ended and they have no place to go.
the expected signifier, the mother handling memories
in the boardroom of the fingers distended. a fair exchange
for touch: dead trees along the boulevard painted
with posters for lost animals, sons or cars
husbands with weak arms dealing papers
under a fiery sky, a twilight of gasps shared.
a lisp, tactile confession before the TV.
the expectancy of word, the cyst enraged,
swollen seemingly forgotten, writhe between pillows
to will the trappings, the appearance
of steel bastards who enumerate desire.
the hum of thoughts evaded in the mind
the swirl of color, the imagination of flesh
fresh with decay.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Going to be honest: I didn't like the beginning (first 5-7 lines). I found it weak compared to the rest of the piece. It was as if I was reading something that was cut-off from something else, it just began in the middle and the thoughts carried the same discord. However, I did like the rest of the piece - but then it came the end, which didn't seem like an end, to me.
Perhaps that's the point, the disassociation of reality, from one thought to the next. The abstract with the literal, all entwined to become one when they can't become one because they are too distant from each other to co-exist.
This piece, though I am sure is taken from a certain aspect that has to do with (perhaps) other works you've written, it doesn't stand on its own well. If this is an extension, or similar to something else, then, it should stand on its own. I do not find it does.
Perhaps I'm wrong, perhaps I'm right - either way: it bothers me.
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Lute, I have said, you are wonderful. This is a poem about Hart Crane killing himself by suicide and immortalized by tie-in to Emerson through Emily Dickinson to John Ashbery's "Clepsydra" poem of length. I think that you are telling us to read that poem of Mr. Ashbery. But either way this is such a wonderful poem and series of references any of which would make a scholar out of a alewife's street lover.
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mr.lute....
how icky the feel started out
the ickiness was lost within reality of living and fighting to rise above...
the continued battle.. or inner struggle that happens within the pillows of the dream state...not sure why but writhe between pillows hit me personally...
when have we not had this expirience within living...
and then i wake to myself drenched and a heartbeat next to death
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So in my nyquil induced state, let me see if I am able to make sense -
there is a theme here, nurturing. It almost makes me wonder of the nature vs. nurture agrument and here I think nurture wins. But there are ulterior motives.
Sex is here as well, primal and not always innocent and it almost leaves me feeling as if I have looked too closely, like its something I don't want to witness.
And there is more here, so I need to keep reading and rereading.
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Freud said that all men want to fuck their mother's in some shape or form... that they seek out the best parts of their mother or what they think they need.. sumbliminal sex, the breast shape, the rounded bellies of pregnancy, the arms of love or the tongue of temper..
they all swirl in a man's mind to seek out sex and lust ... and then comes death...
the rotten stench in their minds and their mouths, that they think that they've fucked their mother and despair sets in and rots away with their soiled hands
I dunno.... i got carried away and rambled
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here are my little clappy guys. Take them, you deserve them.
This is an excellent poem...such a strong, striking type imagery...
I will be back to read again, the wine has taken its toll for this evening.
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I'm left with a sense of apathy. Not direct apathy, but apathy created by the finer (and not at all) details that distract most of us daily from what really matters.
Just my take, though.
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not sure
I am having trouble getting my head around it. It feels like it might be about morals but it's obscure. In my opinion anyway.
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Okay, I'll take a stab at it. Not that I can be sure ..but I see through the impressionistic poem painting something like this:
Birth
Love
Sex
desire
that precedes time,
overwhelms "human"
human reacts by grasping what can be understood,
time is muted, held...
The series is so far fantastic. I got to read that Clepsydra poem it seems. I think I'm going to buy the book I told you about, the one based on the art by that guy (whose art is on the cover of my copy of High Wind in Jamaica). Ashbery's still alive yes? That would be 4 books by poets still alive in 2 months.
You probably not done here. So I'll wish you the good ole, keep writing.
This entire series requires some work which means you know I'll be stalking them.
Remember what Eliot said about plays - if you see a play and understand it the first time, it isn't any good.
Lisa
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