Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Alarmed

Children used as fuel in woodstoves to heat the house—
Oh well, I thought, in this hideous dream, probably too late
to help them anyhow, though they must be in pain, but that’s the way
we heat our homes these days, and though I went back to reading the book
because, after all, there was work to do, I awoke in a sweat
and remembered—I had forgot to set the clock.

Somewhere inside me lives someone who knows how to shock me.
He uses images because he does not have words.
And never the obvious ones
like an image of me failing to set the alarm.
I’d like to know who he is and how he knows so much
and why he keeps such careful track of everything
I’m hoping to lose—like time.
And why he spends all night
shouting at me.

 

Monday, March 25, 2013

The Sensor in the Ceiling


The sensor in my ceiling is watching me
It wants me to move.
If I do not obey, it will throw me into darkness.
It’s like a cowboy shooting bullets at my feet
To make me dance.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Closed Form Poem

by Alan Lindsay
 
 
This is a closed form poem. The rhythm
is invariable. It does not rhyme.
But the third line has to be
enjambed and the fifth line always begins with the word
yellow. I am sorry. You cannot alter the subtle play of vowels.
The glottal stops, the fricatives—all stay the same.
Also caesura, strategically deployed. You cannot change
the words, or the order of the words or any of the line
breaks. The form is locked tight as a drum or painter’s canvas.
 
 
I have created the form. It is mine.
How can you make the poem your own?
You can change the name beneath the title.
That name is not part of the poem and does not belong
to the form. You can tack the poem to a tree
deep in the woods, overlooking a stream. You can place the poem
on a pole in a field above the swaying grass, above the gazing grain.
You can tattoo the poem to your breast and embarrass men by asking them
to read it to the final period. You can recite it before crowds on New York City streets
hurrying to work with cardboard cups of Starbucks in their free hands.
 

Open Form Poem

 
 
 

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Why would that be?


Reality gives us too little to think about, too little stimulation for the brain, so we create puzzles and literature and math and physics. They keep our brains busy, our minds from imploding. They satisfy our craving to be curious. But why would evolution spend the resources necessary to create a being dissatisfied with survival? Nature’s principle for success is excess: cast millions of seeds in the expectation of a dozen trees. Create a universe whose size exceeds all image or metaphor in the hope (if hope is part of the universe) of a handful of planets capable of sustaining life and of creatures capable of looking back at it and saying “what?” Because if it make sense to say that the universe is for anything, that is what it is for.)  Any God this universe has is not interested in efficient manufacture.  Why would that be?