Experiental Poem Sometimes the earth is clerical, giving tokens of impressions to the working lung. The light that shines through seasons- a power with nothing to say save that which overpowers its being. Kick the pan over and build a house. I would liken the struggle of autumn to the struggle to affirm decay, which is obvious, but the way a deep surrender overtakes as tree are stripped- we are facing an anticipation of wind that sometimes forces us inward. Its just that this garden, acts of plays but also of place, seems so mathematical. To ponder over the holiness of fate- no use? Ashbery teaches us to laugh at the sequence- in this way he became the heir to the sheltered throne for me- that which Buddhism and marijuana could never hold. Sometimes the pail is kicked asunder, and the chaos of memory stirs my heart. But then it is for the birds, the memory of surrendering so nicely on that day in Vermont, watching ravens, not knowing why my peace was out of the souls spite- knowing why but wanting to remove it from its obvious response to a call. I need the blessings of some ancient foreboding, but not in a way that mistrusts or misuses the inherent heresy of angular positions. The backyard, and us fighting against roots, we cannot identify what they are, and the sacrifice that we make among snow. Electric light, showering itself on our bareness, thus instilling a clash of sentiments that keep sight where it is.
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 22:04:12 +0000
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