Saturday, March 10, 2007
only the poem is over
He was the poster-boy of pamphlet-men. These are the stareplanes of existence. Bifurcating beams of light punctured through a waterwhite sky. These are the shared pains of persistence, the growing pains of the enlisted. We are the underhousemen. He stared halfhandsomely out into an unsettled sea. A mile or so away yet another sigh between yet two more tired lips. The fairlanes of the assisted, the tearing pains of the arm-twisted. No horizon on the horizon. Skysea. Could stand on my head and never know the difference. Stareplanes. No, the inner ear could tell. The darestains of the unafflicted, the hair-manes of the gutter-lifted. The layers laid or the sand sifted. I think we've tried hard enough for now. This is the seer's grave. That was the blue. That was the black. This is the gray.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
hmm...I really like this poem. This is what I like about it:
The title (i.e. the beginning) is the end. I also like the progression of "That was the blue. That was the black. This is the gray." I feel it is a strong ending.
I like your deceptively simple statements which are so thought-provoking. Such as: "Could stand on my head and never know the difference" and "No, the inner ear could tell." It says a lot (very concisely) about the despair and hopelessness of the persona.
My favorite statement is: No horizon on the horizon. It is so simple but it gives me the chills. It sums up the utter darkness so neatly. The horizon is such a powerful image; we look to it for the hope of a new day, the sun steadily coming up once again. But it also is a play on words because "on the horizon" is a synonym for the future. So, mathematically speaking, no horizon on the horizon translates to no hope for the future.
Thank you for yet another moving piece of art.
Post a Comment