Thursday, July 10, 2014

Hidden Epiphany

A poem is pointless, nothing more than
a beautiful description of an
impervious thought or useless fiction.
Yet the point proceeds impotently on,
setting forth whence its conclusion won't do,
can't suffice and shouldn't satisfy you.
Without bottom the poem finds hatred
quickly with quaint ideas mind-stated,
hand-drawn and the language apparatus,
in full proving it inadequate...thus,
ALACK ALACK! So solemn words, words, words
are, are not and could, should or would will swerve
the intelligible beings capable
of consuming fragments infinitesimal.
::
PS
::
Picture in Room of Hotel on Street
The poem will do the portrait no more
than it already is. What it is is
simple; pigment, parchment and shaped vectors
which mimic the street around the Mississ-
ippi housing formerly framed business.
Yet the path is brick, not water nor less
than the clay and grass displaced neighborhoods
which are only known if seen in the woods. 

No comments:

Post a Comment