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Poem that makes no sense whatsoever, but I’m posting anyway.

October 25, 2011

So I’ve made lots of poems that make no sense whatsoever to readers, but do make sense to me. I was going through my files, trying to find “The Mexican Flea Market” and stumbled across this one.  I remember writing it, but have lost completely what some bits were supposed to mean (which is ironic, given its topic)! My only hint is that it’s NOT a love poem…though love obviously is mentioned.  Then again, poems don’t necessarily have to make sense. What do YOU think is going on? Maybe it’ll remind me what in the 7 layers of chocolate cake I was thinking!

Conversation

 

Why does everything have to be translated?

Sometimes I think that if I were [troubled]

to find the right words

the correct verbs, consonants, nouns, letters

and put them in the right order

all would clear away

in a single, gentle breath

 

But the tone makes the music

What octave, chime, pitch, rhyme

would be needed

to say the feelings

I’ve been burdened with so long

that they almost crush me

(anyone who reads this will think its a love poem

–including me)

 

Yet even my reflection in the window

is divided

[“a house divided cannot stand”]

Crufixed in half by wood and pane

 

Why does everything have to be translated?

 

We bumble in the dark

not even the sunflower’s sense to face the sunshine

eyes sewed shut

with black and red thread

until somehow by trick or true affection

We hear an echoing heartbeat

and touch a cold hand to match

to realize its a mirror glass

 

The loneliness of companionship, the companionship of loneliness

They lavalamp into each other

In the brightest light there is darkness

within the deepest darkness there is light.

A telescope length on both ends

 

And the poet: find the disjoint in reality

and ideal, the seam ripping

the universe

the tiny tear, the poet finds it

and crawls inside

[what lies beyond that door?  I feel I have yet to see it.]

 

Find oneself in the root of a flower

surface tension your way up the xyleom

to the stem, past sepals to the ovule

out to the filament, the tip of the anther to a

tiny thing of pollen

to be blown away

[beauty is its own excuse for being]

 

Petal blanket, a radar for bees

a rave of electronic neon

where you once said ‘see you soon’

to your friend

blessing her forehead of pale canvas

and dripping red thread

on which the light played

knowing that this is goodbye

 

Why does everything have to be translated?

 

The next time you saw her

smoke curled and burned your eyes

and you felt your heart,

the marigold’s top, be

zinged off by a pebble

thrown by a person you almost wished

your mind could throttle

Though the same mind betrayed you,

thinking of compassion

“Just keep struggling”

Were those the right words?

Why does everything have to be translated?

 

I’m tired to this.

[“I’m tired”]

I’ll kick free of the ground

and transcend

though I know I can’t

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From → Poetry

One Comment
  1. A lot of wisdom beside beauty – love this one.

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