samedi 25 octobre 2008
random thoughts on misunderstandings
each one unique
yet all the same
we break our bread
then lay our blame
offer up love
then hit the fan
competition's
overrated balm
i'm just a worm
lying in wait
for another corpse
on which to eat
forgive me
i'm slimy
a pestulance
of neo-psychology
each one unique
yet all the same
we lay down odds
to frame a debate
one is rich
and one is poor
we feast on lore
grapple with god
educate ourselves
about the cold
put a sweater on
and just shut up
i've had enough
of deep division
i'm going fishing
in a frozen pond
maybe i'll sleep
perhaps just nod
as beautiful souls
turn into frogs
i'll steep myself
for a second time
in lore's bright colors
and poetry's rhyme
forgive me, i'm
but a ranting log
replete with bugs
and dessicated wood
i'm outside in
and leftside right
i'm torn asunder
by frozen blight
each one the same
yet each one unique
opening blithely
closeting the cheek
trying to belong
aching to be better
with horses naying
and rag-a-tag weather
i'll put me to bed
wake up, try again
but i'll never quite get it
will i, dear friend?
each one the same
each one a god
we'll die before
we understand it all
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3 commentaires:
You've captured succinctly and stingingly the despair and disappointment of a fully engaged intellectual life deliberately emptied by choice of all comforting and deceptive myths here, Laura. And your use of the sing song rhyme of the nursery tale to slug it out with the disillusioned thinkers and poet maudits from Baudelaire to Houellebecq here is both perverse and enchanting, as I think you meant it to be.
o dearest john, i love how you always get my poems, not that it's that hard but you read in between the lines. i crave your readings; it's my newest addiction.
ed just posted a great essay about recognition in the internet age, and i had a deep and disturbed response. i did write in a dark closet for 51 years, with barely a thought of being read, avoided all the competition of the marketplace, i had no time for such thoughts as i was writing all the time in big blocks of prolificacy.
when my life took a turn to physical rather than merely mental isolation, i stopped writing, as i began to personify one aspect of both the virtual and non-virtual worlds: exhaustion. i first sought solace in ebay... well, that just led to a lot of debt and fly-by-night exchanges, friendly though they were, mindless fun... and almost no writing for several years. i was a well-costumed former poet. :>>))
then i found you and ed and your outstanding poetry club. i found myself inspired by other writers, especially the wonderful writers you've brought into my field of reading. and i could write again... like a divine miracle brought down upon my head. liberated... free to write my "nonsense" verse (with a wink and a nod to dr. seuss) and be understood. that's been so soothing.
but misunderstandings are the price of internet communications, perhaps of all written exchanges with strangers, even when they feel like friends. i've had my share of misunderstandings, esp. as i have that singularly paranoid slant of the socially marginalized.
i wrote this poem in a huff after such a one. and life goes on and i write another day, thanks in part to your inspiring commentary. you are a wizard who can bring people back to life, john. xoxox
I really love this poem. I often tell couples that if I could observe one of their disagreements or fights, I could write a script for all of them.
While their outsides are busy competing, their insides play the same negative messages again and again.
So well written.
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