----- Original Message -----
From: "andrew burke" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Saturday, July 28, 2007 11:32 PM
Subject: Re: 3 poems
Fred - I am reading and rereading these - great style and
thought-provoking juxtapositions of imagery through a taut syntax
(especially in Step on a Crack). The final one is the instantly
clearest, and very enjoyable. In Bonbon, I'd like a more concrete
application of whse migration, but maybe you left it open to applu
universally (a la Beckett). In Step, the asterik didn't quite indicate
where the italics begin and end for me. I'm a bit confused about what
is quoted and what is not at the beginning.
As always, I am a flawed reader, so forgive any lack of insight!
Andrew
I use one asterisk to indicate that the following word is italicized. Two
asterisks surround an italicized phrase or sentence. WHY don't emails allow
italics? In "Bonbon" it's a migration of birds but there are a lot of them.
More than in our era. (Like the passenger pigeons whose flights once turned
day to night on the Midwest prairies. All extinct now.)
On 29/07/07, Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Bonbon
>
> *… the only species f------ liberals DON'T care about …*
> (right-wing blog)
>
>
> Awesome in any era,
> unthinkable in ours, a migration
> darkens the sky. Soon it will see
> the northern world-forest, herds
> as vast as itself on the tundra, glaciers
> like jewels in the earth's brow.
> The friends around the table
> on a stone terrace merging
> into a boundless garden lend
> their consciousness a moment to the birds,
> then to the wolves and bears who elsewhere
> glance up at them, before returning
> to their reading. Each reads;
> and then they talk or let
> emotions swell the invisible lake
> containing and reflecting them
> and history and geese this lucid autumn.
> They are not human in our sense.
> Their thoughts would seem too slow or fast,
> painful or just. They are, moreover,
> so few, not only as compared
> to other species but the dead,
> who wrote the work they read today.
> They like its turbulence at a distance;
> prefer it to specious visions of peace,
> which were anyway rare. Something
> yowls in the woods. A keen breeze
> ruffles the ancient pages like a blessing.
>
>
>
>
>
> Step on a Crack
>
>
> Al in *Detour or any street
> schizo could tell you that *Fate or some
> mysterious force can put the finger
> on you or me for no good
> reason* but you wouldn't believe
> or understand his mumbling, which rather confirms
> the point. There are rules.
> They change. Men may come
> for you at any moment, rendition you
> to a cell far from lawyers (they are lawyers), but if
> you're reading this you're probably safe
> enough, a lawyer. They decide
> that however you try and whatever you do
> you're wrong, an infidel or black or Jew;
> but you know this, which is to say
> it's rational and soothing in its way.
> Even bigots (perhaps especially they) hear
> a deeper voice that says *You got off easy
> this time*, without making clear how,
> what. Or growls *We'll have no more of this*,
> not after the lynching or the abuse
> but some neglectful movement towards release.
> The tests come back negative, which means
> they won't next time. You close in
> (it's a sting, the cameras are rolling)
> and the dude, the pederast
> or richly bribed official, laughs: it turns out
> he owns the network, the tape
> erases itself, you're beaten black and blue.
> At each step there are mystic checkpoints,
> borders. You'd like to think
> there is some satellite- or bird's-eye view
> of the maze, but love and art
> are tentative and compromised.
> I'm sorry to disappoint you. No I'm not.
>
>
>
>
> Usual Place
>
>
> From my corner, her neck seemed
> to collect all the light over the counter
> and the display case her daughter
> clutched, one small hand splayed and still.
> The neck was Parmigianino long
> but sturdy, red-gold hair
> pinned, so that the space behind her ear
> looked as soft in that light
> as to a god the solar photosphere
> would feel, as he stroked. Curls
> drifted. She ordered;
> the voice was neither here nor there.
> The dress was yellow, leaving shoulders bare
> as the legs. The sun
> had filmed her. Long muscles lurked
> under the skin, and beneath them
> a widening triumphal grin
> of celtonordic genes. The daughter,
> a sketch, will be something greater
> in twenty years (I mused) unless the mother
> hearkens to her shrill resentful pleas
> for things in the display case,
> impastoed, sublime with diabetes.
>
>
>
> (Note: "Detour" a classic film noir from 1946.)
>
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.inblogs.net/hispirits
http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/
|
