by Darryl Price
There's Not One Single Word
for you that I'd be happy
without knowing. What you see before
you is the squashed ball
of my sad attempt to
hold you to that moment--
but each pictured mug begs for
another; each air-conditioned
sheet orders one more round of clouds,
please, birds striking the seams of landscapes lending
more line to a frenzied
concerto already in progress, more wild wind
upon more fresh leaf, with
squawking children playing
just below the hill and
the sea itself crouching
down to the horizon--
no matter the length left
to knot. It flows on at
every turn of the head
like a whistle on fire--
becoming the season
before and after itself,
so that one's always
facing the flame from any sort of a blind
direction. Like a sower then
I cast my blank letters
like gravel upon a
slant tin roof finding joy
in the sounds of failure
to musically allude
to even your name's start my love.
Pieces of heart may provide
a few crumbs for birds
moments away from their
own unfortunate panes,
thick trucks grumble deep into
love fields and nothing
is given a second
chance to grow to seed, whereas you and I,we
were once a dream that brought pure
laughter out of thin air
and pushed hands into each other's
grateful places.
We swept the world then all
together and it was somehow
safer; only the two of
us the most likely to be in danger.
D.P. 10/12/09
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The people are poor;hastily impoverished,he murmured under his breath, or phylogenetic systematics in order:It's us! We'll have to do it--whatever it is that needs to be done. There isn't anybody else. For my part I've always worked at honoring what poetry is within ourselves and our lives by treating it with respect and thankfulness as a present being found everywhere.I'm glad to be a poet. Often I feel like I need to try harder not to be boring or phony so that the poems have some authenticity about them and a better chance to become real and alive in the obvious world."All philosophy begins in wonder."--Aristotle
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This brings to mind a bit from a song I like called "Who Stole the Soul" by William Elliott Whitmore...
"And I'm afraid they won't stop.
Till all the poets have failed.
Till all the good men are jailed for nothing at all."
Dig this, Darryl. Thanks.
That's why there is something to be said of living an insular life with self & books (& internet) poetry & stories, and others who don't have "meaty fingers".
Great expression of the undying, the living - standing up and being heard
Always like your approach to the line, DP. Fearless. Good piece.
Shel, Walt and Sam:Thanks. Sometimes I just want to say what's on my mind and not worry about whether it's me being especially creative or not. I'm so glad you liked it. And it's always my honor, my friends, to be hearing from you. DP
Loved this Darryl. Appreciated the way you laid the lines out
Nice poem. "plant fields of sorrow," "lace your coffee and donuts with enough fear..."
Last stanza is my favorite.
Michael and Matt: I appreciate your comments. Thanks for taking the time. Poems are meant to be shared and I feel privileged to share this one with both of you.
Darryl, I love the way this poem brings the darkness in, and then shows the glimpses of light that are part of even the poorest (love poor or money poor) person's existence. "And still there will be
laughter. And still there will be small
acts of benevolence. And still there will
be poets singing about stars and the
moon with its rivers of clouds and hands." Breathtaking!
Fave.
Love the emotional rhythm and the imagery of the colorwheel, the fields, and the elephant brought to its knees. Last stanza's my fave, too.
I found Fibers very compelling, and found myself reading it a number of times.
The image that came to mind for me was a braid, a plait, a Challah bread with its three interwoven sections of dough, representing the poor, those who take advantage of the poor, the world as it keeps delivering beauty regardless. For me, the notion of three, tied together, was very powerful.