A vain penitent before the bar
peddling elixir
a blessed snake oil, a sweet lemonade,
Johnny, don’t I know your name?
At solstice first fruits.
a light bleeding to remove ill humors,
the good wife who brought forth
out of the stormy night,
who kept the file in good order
while a babe screamed in the streets
a laxative for the poisons
that have purchased existence
dust shadow a rose flamingo.
That place
when the newspaper rolls
across the wet lawn
bare feet and fiat.
a bit of clay artfully arranged
a long insomnia
broken by fitful sleep.
fourscore the indenture
a spark in maelstrom
the kneading of bread
and beaten flesh ash gray with age.
The udder is just as it was
swollen
with sweet teats dripping with ambrosia.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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if you post this one, they will tell you it is full of "abstractions" and someone named gargy will tell you to: try to have your writing make sense.
and he might add that you need to read 1,000,000 more poems before you write one more.
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It is Chaucerian, but Chaucer brought uncomfortably to the 21st century and the snake oil has been left on my doorstep by either the milkman or the cat, same as ever
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I was talking with Zara today about what we like to read and the types of comments we like to get ... I told her, I love to hear "I like this poem but I don't know why?"
That would seem to me to indicate there might be a return trip to the said poem - for if you read it once and get it all, what would be the point?
So this poem. I really like it. I've read it about 7 times or so. And I like it more and more. Did you read it? It is very strange. I am strange. But the sounds and images just sorta nag the shit out of me in a very good way.
Stanza 1 but what bar is it? (and the return to the teat at then end makes me think whatever is being served in that first stanza will never match that ambrosia). But dammit Lute, all that imagery and sound. It is almost too much for me to continue but I want too.
So we get to the dutiful wife - who isn't as we expect taking care of the baby but rather the expelling the poison drunk in stanza 1? (that have purchased existence ... hmmmm. big line that) . What good imagery - THAT place where the newspaper rolls across the wet lawn - sort of like suburbia bland but safe and secure. I'm beginning to feel the drink is Illusion.
fourscore the indenture
l can't help but think of Lincoln and the Gettsburg address in which he harkens to the American Revolution. Freedom. Hah.
The last lines remind me what is important is available and I'm thankful for those give Gifts.
I'll be back.
Lisa
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I make bread when I'm upset or angry sometimes, it helps to alleviate the tension.. a good pounding into the work surfaces with rapid hands and the kneading of pliable dough, reminding of flesh... it can be quite satisfying.. like a maealstrom of flour and water
this isn't the milk of human kindness, yet there is a hidden aspect of trying to search for good in a turmoil, almost like waiting for the storm to pass.... then the sorries and apologies can follow....
spunky stuff this Mr Guitarman... me liked this on a Sunday morning..
G.x
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