Pages

Monday, November 3, 2014

Bubbles, popped

It's like playing Scrabble


Discipline is a bitch whose whining is easily ignored because of all the pretty things. Still the words hang around the refrigerator like last weekend's pizza leftovers. Since I ate those for dinner I figure the least I can do is play with the words.

Sometimes I wonder if a better poem would happen if I threw a handful of the little suckers up against the frig door.

But that's conjecture and to prove to you that actual thought, fueled by pizza, went into this verse, let's close read it. Because NO ONE ELSE IN THE WORLD IS CLOSE READING REFRIGERATOR POETRY.

It begins with the idea of the writer, the poet, stripped of everything, pretension and dishonesty and all worldly and wordy things. Also clothes, haha. Concern for legitimacy. Anyway, then: naked poet, naked poem, right? We long to write brilliant lines of blinding clarity.  But of course we can't strip ourselves of all the stuff we carry around. It's rather futile. Our poems carry the same problems. But a poem still tries to escape. In the first line, the idea that the words are imprisoned is important, although we, the poet, can see the words and even use the words -- that's why they are 'in glass.' We're trying to break a poem out. It's a delicate thing -- like champagne bubbles that float to the surface as we tip the glass to our lips -- some escape, and some we consume. When champagne bubbles pop, you can see the small mist that hovers above the flute. There lives poetry, bubbles that rise like a prayer, a drunken communion. 

I'm not drunk nor am I sanctified. But I am listening to Hozier. Again.


In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene / Only then I am Human / Only then I am Clean / Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen.

No comments:

Post a Comment