The listening apparatus
Is silent –
Ahead of sound –
Your eyes gush
Like awakened
Blake.
From: kolkata, west bengal, India
About me: What would I be saying If I said, ‘The sky is true’? Would the dream pass more slowly If I lowered my voice, bassooned my vowels? No end to wonder, I find, And the evening mist is still. I talk in allegory when I speak to myself. I walk up the hill – my spirits rise. The process ‘saying’ again Is always about itself, about something Other than its content Its statement and assertion. I reach with every word For the truth of what I find— I miss and then I say something else. The reader, myself included, Gets only the altered after-saying. Where is the sky in all this--? The measure wavers – the link is broken – Disturbed, a trial of what is, Wanders, palpitates, grows worn In its youth— Like a design by William Morris Or brothel in Joyce’s arcane language.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006,12:57 AM
biography of the pen
It served its purpose - providing smooth sinuous cursive, allowing for doodling dexterity and contemplative chewing. When sleep stole the many lines of poetry my pen would recover them in the morning. When not only the page but also my mind was blank the pen would instinctively strike out on its own. This particular pen was my favourite; I cannot revive it by shaking what little ink remains to the tip. I despair to just tossing it in the bin. Yes, it served its purpose but have I properly served its worth?
yes you have... with this ode to your pen