Tuesday, October 02, 2007

If them


Werner Herzog, I’m trying to speak like you,

though outside autumn wildly arcs

and the Alps are only a word I have

loved a long time. Tired is not

what I want my body to be

but a mist above snow. So I’m pretending

this Teutonicism. Jackhammers

through lake ice. Rabid flocks

of woodpeckers immune

to migraine but not so much hunger.

Last week I learned this,

that recycled glass has a name.

That it’s cullet. I thought of Faulkner,

his mongrel personae. Which

is to say I thought of

suffering and fire and the south,

to which I am speaking

like a fool. Amused in my flesh,

even by my flesh, though

lovers never laughed. Sighed appropriately,

called out, murmurations

and writhing. In my mouth

I held them as well. All of you,

come back, my nerves seem

to clearly say, though mumbling

I’ve said the direst things

or stopped one at my door

in muslin dreams, her body specked

with paint. Longer still

won’t you stay is what I meant though

what I said I cannot say.


Anonymous said...

I really like the last sentence. Still, shouldn't it be "the South" with the "s" capitalized? I know that could seem picky, but give the South its due and give it a capital!

The Reader said...

how i love the word 'muslin'

Fiona Robyn said...

much enjoyed this. fiona@a small stone.

Anonymous said...

interesting syntax...implies a distance from the subject, a playfulness regarding your desire, or fear of taking it too seriously. reminds me of young poets who are writing to their beloved but couch much of their sentiment in mystery.

what if you took the impulse behind this poem, and wrote three other poems? what would come out, then?

(r--pretend i'm some famous poet giving you great advice).