Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Phenomenology

Le soir, toujour, sans cesse  forever night, the darkness
having cloaked the brick walls I fixed on through my
camera lenses and studied intensely in that each had
its own existence, each brick its own shadow when the 
sun setting before the blackness obliterated my vision—
(recalling nothing of the many walls I passed indifferently). 
To know a brick wall’s being is so individual it ceases to 
resemble another. How dismissive one can be of one’s 
reality, to gain my own freedom to photograph such a 
wall as it exists to me, so thoroughly. My viewfinder
angled, I record its chips, discolorations, how undulating 
a flat surface can be. My eyes, conscience of the slight 
southern arc of the sun in the hot weather, in the winter 
my hands frozen as, I allow each brick, each wall to emerge. 


Friday, September 15, 2017

The Shop Behind

Hanging two original Tony Springer oils
on my plasterboard walls. The nail hammers
in an inch and then hits nothing. Hopefully
secure, although I wouldn’t hang one over 
my bed.

Secretive in that
renters have no rights to walls, which are owned
by landlords, although landlords (seigneurs) 
themselves cannot
live with bare walls, or can they? 

The Lord of the Manor has money in his
head, not walls—unless they’re his,
unless he designates them damaged.

So the poet has a shop behind in that
walls are his façade. Unlike the seigneurs,
he needs to be alert, ready to hide.
He knows the walls are temporary in that
he is passing through, while 
a landlord is permanent in that he thinks
no deeper than a nail.

A poet must be ready to hide, like a member of
a resistance, for to write significant poetry 
is to resist. A poet is a revolutionary,
whether or not he’s aware of it.
or capable of thinking so.

Poetry is abnormal, a poet is abnormal,
unless he belongs to a local writing group
where normalcy is expected, as if poetry
has nothing to do with life but is merely a way
of getting together, like a knitting group
meeting monthly with new needles and
wool.

Life is immeasurable, unless it is reduced to
inches. But the poet of ambiguity, existence
is a danger to a knitting group 
and must be repressed.

A shop behind 
in which the poet cannot be disturbed, or even 
located at times, is always there, even as this 
is written in the obscurity 
of what I am, if I accept myself, as I must,
live there in distinction—
not long but deeply, 
whether others like it or not.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Last Resort

The clouds can release the sun with one report.
I want to speak, but I don’t. There’s safety in silence.
Action precedes motivation. One can’t wait until
one feels like it. It might be too late. A small 
demonstration led by clergy was more of a church
service than a protest. Introduce yourself to the
person standing next to you. She says hello, tells me 
her name, as does her daughter, and both shake my 
hand. The 200 or so people sing. I roll my eyes, not 
outward but inward. What is happening has happened 
before, not exactly in same form, but it can lead to 
similar results. Hundreds of petitions that go nowhere. 
I’m frightened for us all. The coming is predictable, 
but who wants to believe so? It can’t happen here.