----- Original Message ----- 
  From: Halvard Johnson 
  To: Johnson Halvard 
  Sent: Monday, February 04, 2008 9:25 AM
  Subject: Poems by others: Alan Sondheim, "strange energies"


  strange energies


  this machine lies old and cracked in the garbage. the desk has collapsed
  and no longer supports anything. my hands are shattered bones. the walls
  of this building leave small traces in the earth overgrown with weeds. the
  fabric of the chair has decayed and its frame rusted. my sweater had
  disappeared. the air has shifted. the copper pipes lie in a tangled heap.
  the trees have moved on. there are different elements. my glasses are
  buried in the muck. the keyboard has been recycled into annilhilation. the
  sounds are screaming and unknown. the wiring is broken into pieces. light
  radiates nowhere. the christmas tree has turned to dust. my eyes are eaten
  out. my partner lies dead among me. unknown radiations screech through the
  atmosphere. winds bring difference. the pair of scissors is twisted miles
  from here. the sink is overturned deep below the surface of the ground.
  the keyboard is smashed and silent. the electric fan has corroded down to
  the level of the interior rotor. the hard drive has bent beyond
  recognition. the junked couch is nothing but rusted springs. different
  clouds gather here. the remains of the cat have been completely devoured.
  the edo chest has recycled into different plants. the model woodie with
  its tiny surfboard has disappeared. the windows are smashed beyond
  recognition. the bed has been junked and buried. my arms are broken into
  pieces. the cars are shattered bones. the neck has collapsed and no longer
  supports anything. the city is overgrown with weeds. my clothes are buried
  in the muck. the smashed abacus lies empty and beadless. the television
  has recycled into different plants. sound radiates nowhere. the radio has
  been completely devoured. the video tapes are smashed beyond recognition.
  the fabric of the chair has decayed and its frame rusted


  --Alan Sondheim



  It's comforting to adopt a point of view after the disaster, whether social, nuclear, or ecological.  A poet can thereby escape all the fear, thirst, hunger, pain, and killing, including his own, while seeming to warn about them.  Beneath this poem is a well-worn Romantic conceit: "I shall be one with Nature, stone and tree."