Cheers L reminds me of a poem I read a while ago and was surprised that it was my name at the bottom -then it gradually came back -roll on Alzheimer's
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From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On Behalf Of Lawrence Upton
Sent: 01 April 2013 14:30
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Subject: Dream
I saw the ending of a printed poem. I assumed or felt that I knew
that the poem was of my authorship. What I could read of it was
familiar although I would not even have been able to say it back
without sight of the print, not even those last few lines.
I have had a similar experience. Previously, however, I have read
the poems I hit upon as if I had forgotten them completely so that it
was as if I were reading them for the first time -- like one whose
memory has failed on meeting members of close family, perhaps speaking
of �that woman who is sometimes here�, and, when asked if he means
his wife, exclaims �Is that who she is?�.
I have been impressed by the writing; but, here, as my discovery led
to responsive authorial plans, the words blurred out of focus in what
I sought to reread.
This poem's ending, that is, its final page, verse lines occupying
most of it, was huge. It was lying down, perhaps tilted upwards
slightly, but it must have been seven or eight feet high
That did not seem odd to me. It may be that it was part of an
installation or an especially-made piece of equipment for a
performance.
I began to read.
I believe that I read the last line first; and then the penultimate
line; and so on, upwards; and, in some ways, backwards.This seemed
entirely appropriate; and I had a strong sense of communicating with
my audience. Where that audience was located I cannot say. It may have
been that stage lighting hid them or that distracted me from them.
By the time I had reached the top of the page in my reading, I was
climbing steps which had my words written on them. It was still a page
and known to be a page but it was perceived by me as being a
staircase. I cannot say whether the words were written on the flats or
on the risers.
I had been joined by a fellow reader, a female, whom I did not see
directly. She read well. However, I should say that she was uttering
words which were visible above the printed text, right-ranged where
the print was ranged left. I cannot say how they came to be there, or
visible there; I suspect that they were not inscribed. They may have
been projected in some way.
I think that I too was reading the imposed text then. I hear my
voice � but not my words � assertive; and hers answering
interrogatively; and then she, assertive, and me interrogative. Yet it
was the opposite of interrogation between us. It was a willing
offering of speech. �Is this what you'd like to hear?� �Does
that sound good?� �How like you this?� It was good-natured and
more, the cooperation of intelligent analysis. On reaching the top of
the page, I found it to be three-dimensional, with a suggestion of a
corridor, which would have taken us beyond the end of the book,
whatever that might come to mean: it was a possibility into which I
could look down or along, depending upon one's choice of referents;
but I did not look. To my left would have been the page edge and the
probable means to turn that page and find out what is printed on the
other side.
I wonder now whether we would have had to descend steps of that
page's lines before continuing reading. The lines might have made a
narrative sense going downwards. Possibly they could have been
meaningfully readable contrary to intended order, as with the page
which we had just finished reading.
Would there have been additional text endorsed without printing upon
the obverse page, if I am right in seeing it as obverse? Why should
that not be? That page might have risen further from where we now
stood. If we stood anywhere. Say then: from the point we saw; or the
point at which we saw.
The dream at that particular state dissolved.
By then, I think, I was slightly more aware than I had been, more
aware objectively of my experience; and so the inconsistent logic of
my fantasy disintegrated.
I awoke. I was alone. I had no book. I had no recall of my
discovered poetry, beyond the recollection that there was or had been
a discovery.
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