<! -- =template_poem.html========= start results template ========== -->
Published on: 4/2/2009
A celebration of my ignorance
I don't want to salt my poetry
with hidden clues to be uncovered by detectives
intent on my translation
Don't need multiple layers of meaning on meaning on meaning
to achieve a lasting record of my thoughts
I'm not Christy or Doyle constructing
a good read
or a scavenger hunt.
I know where the Lethe flows, so what if you do too
Pretentious tidbits arcane trivae aren't sown among
the point must be open to all or I haven't done my job
I could pore over Whitman or the Iliad or consult
my ancient Mesopotamian fragments, all handsomely leatherbound,
sprinkle the proof that only scholars need apply,
but then my audience would dwindle to harumphing nodders
assured anew of superior education
re-established on their pedestals of glorious accomplishment
numbering in the dozens
if I want to be ignored it's not so hard
to call my family:
where the salt is poured into a wound
not spread hipdeep upon the page.
Published on: 3/20/2008
But when will it stop hurting
always the first serious question
not to involve
urn versus box.
Clear pure eyes
so often paired with
smooth calm brow
but now eyes damp, hollow
papery skin thin and dry
despair gathers her brow to furrows
It's a low tide
I finally say,
that wave by wave
gently moves the shoreline back,
until you look up and think: Ah.
Or high tide: the water that laps sudden cold
across toes, arising imperceptibly
as growing grass, as a rising moon
Or, I add,
analogies in full bloom,
It's that headache-
the one that lasts for days.
After a while you think, Oh.
It's gone. I wonder when it went away.
Only the absence
clever well-traveled woman, she knows.
But intellect isn't heart
reason does nothing for lonely rage,
measured plans will never kiss you
<! -- =template_poem.html========= end results template ========== -->