I wish to read the poem that isn’t there.
It is in another book.
It has not been written.
My dream is at an end.
Take me with you to the park.
Face me toward the sun in the trees.
I can hear the voice
Broken, intent, alive,
Making a Saturday afternoon
--a place to start.
I can see one dog chase another,
Chasing time
And the church bells.
Children grow their millimeter for the day.
Hold tight to the sky.
We are all juggernauts of passion
Trying the sun
Trying on laughter
Dressed in each other’s arms.
Where it is, I do not know.
Some notebook in a drawer.
In a room full of curtains
And nuances.
In my sKirt pocket.
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.
