I.
the instrument of verse dare not
catch hold of the reed that counts
each admonished preposition wishing
to join in, adjunct, contra, sideways
as two lateral geometries isomorphize
as two mismatched galaxies fuse
their stars into becoming nonsense;
the incarnate verb goes missing.
II.
the flint is girded and there is talk
of how they laid siege to the town
that fled the scene that bled the
song that read the signs of fire; the
flint is beginning to see the child
of fate that marks the beginning of
tomorrow.
III.
the sorry ending of the meandering
village tale goes out to sea and
brings the cup of reason a leaf,
an adverb and a frowning war, to
be clever in anticipation, to know
what every mad knife swells to cut.
“incarnate verb goes missing”… i’m going to be thinking about this for quite a while!
It was after a few sweat-out poems that this one came trickling through. Trickly ones generally fare better than sweat-out ones, but trickles are no guarantee. So I am glad you liked it, thanks 🙂
Oh yes, wish there was a place to put all my unfinished, awkward, stiff poems so someone else can breathe life into them. Meanwhile, the sweating out continues !!!
More and more, I find myself ruthlessly deleting the awkward ones. A few I keep – in the hope I might change my mind if only to edit and set them free 🙂
If only my poems could go straight from heart to keyboard, without the interfering mind, then they’d be born free!
indeed, that is the (ever elusive) end that compels us to write.