Yes, Patrick, sounds a bit like a Silliman 'new sentence' quote - hee
hee hee. Perhaps it was a Saussurean slip and I really meant, 'Any
feedbag welcome.' Or, reading it through psychoanalytical theory, it
was a subconscious call-for-help: the poet distrusts the closure of a
poem, both lexicographically and functionally, and wishes an authority
figure to release both the Poet and the Poem from this 'blind alley'
(de Bono 1966) by scolding him, releasing pre-pubescent fundamental
waves of aggressive creativity in response. Or perhaps it means what
it says - although all meaning is 'defferred', n'est pas?
Did you ever see that great cartoon where a wife is introducing her
husband to a colleague at a cocktail party (or somewhere), and he
says: "He's a terrorist? Thank God! For a moment there I thought you
said he was a Theorist ..."
Andrew
On 03/12/06, Patrick Mc Manus <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Andrew interesting last line
> 'Poem ends. Any feedback welcome.'
> Cheers P
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Poetryetc provides a venue for a dialogue relating to poetry and
> poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On Behalf Of andrew burke
> Sent: 02 December 2006 10:31
> To: [log in to unmask]
> Subject: Poem
>
> I wrote this poem over the last two days, and showed it to an American
> young man today - he liked it but asked what Fantales were! It never
> struck me that they were not USA of origin because they were
> (originally) all about Hollywood stars. (They have since broadened.)
> Fantales are a chocolate coated lolly with caramel inside. The wrapper
> details the life and career of at least one major film star - very
> compressed into maybe thirty or forty words. Here goes nothing:
>
>
>
> (title) My True Account
>
> I've seen these hands on old men before-
> swollen rivers, deep valleys and bony ranges,
> dark brooding between knuckles. I know
>
> the back of my hand like my own country.
> In the Fifties, I read Milton and Rosenberg
> on a wooden desk, with a chipped inkwell.
>
> That desktop spelt a history of boys
> before me, their hieroglyphs and spilt ink
> characterising my space, my view.
>
> Upstairs in the dorm, my bed-high locker
> held what was me-all else cluttered in
> grey flannel pockets: rosary beads, coins,
>
> and Fantale wrappers, to be smoothed
> and added to my collection-
> Alan Ladd, June Allyson, James Stewart.
>
> Milton and Rosenberg drew me in to
> their intense reality. I built a chapel in my head
> and read their words like litany: the sudden
>
> uprising of larks on return, then
> dawn. I was twelve, I saw him die.
> 'They also serve who only stand and waite.'
>
> Serve? I am of the individual generation,
> sitting on our merry-go-round horses, riding to
> our faux rebellion, nervous to dismount.
>
>
> Poem ends. Any feedback welcome.
>
>
> --
> Andrew
> http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
> http://www.bam.com.au/andrew
>
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.bam.com.au/andrew
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