by strannikov
poetry less than poverty
poetry less than poverty:
fair warning to poets, but a good sign.
poetry—human poverty's speaking voice
poverty—the substance of each human void
or the void all share: poetry speaks us poor
stubborn with stubborn lack—“there has to be more”
than mouths can find words to fit around
than senses can learn or throats can speak
than is culled from somnambulist skulls
than crazed wailings vivify or paint—
and always well-pared and properly pruned.
poetry is less than poverty:
knows no victory, that is,
does not vanquish with heroes
(poets don't do well with votes).
mercif'lly, poetry's spared from much that's vain,
but of truth, beauty, good—pale vestige alone.
poems hide vulnerable remarks in dirt
that poor stirrings of poor dirt unveil and veil.
what else might explain how thin we can sing?
—but still must true poets truthful remain,
and what more true of us than poor we remain?
an unnumbered Han-shan
reading books does not save you from death
nor does it keep poverty away:
what explains literacy's appeal?
reading books equips us to engage.
you cannot engage if you can't read,
you'll go not far in this world today.
dose bitter medicine with garlic,
the bitterness will soon be forgot.
where our howls remain
galaxies stars beyond all count
quiet as a crucified god
quiet as any worshipt god
quiet as a universe beyond count.
no planet's brakes through ether squeal
no planets whoosh through space or sky
—only in bubbled air is sound
that animals in place of quiet hear.
within this planet's bubbled air
(our only home to hear home's sounds)
the tumults of our fellow beasts
preferred to patient silence that awaits.
what shrieks our souls might howl (had we souls)
croak quiet in ambiguous throats.
from the substance of our bodies' deeds,
we sense how we perish with this flesh:
our goodbyes began bruit years ago.
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It doesn't do to number Cold Mountain pieces, it seems, so why bother?
"poetry less than poverty" and "where our howls remain" appeared at Literati Magazine in June 2020, thank you, Amantine B.
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"poems hide vulnerable remarks in dirt
that poor stirrings of poor dirt unveil and veil.
what else might explain how thin we can sing?"
&
"reading books does not save you from death"
&
"what shrieks our souls might howl (had we souls)
croak quiet in ambiguous throats."
*
Enjoyed the read, Edward. For reasons somewhere beyond, these bring to mind the voice of Frank Stanford - especially in "Cotton You Lose in the Field" ... "Their Names Are Spoken" ... "Circle of Lorca".
"the substance of each human void
or the void all share..."
Nicely done, E.
Sam: many thanks and more. I hope to look up Frank Stanford soon.
Ll. 3 and 4 in the last stanza of "where our howls remain" were adapted/derive from David Jones's true epic In Parenthesis.
David: thank you, thank you, and thank you.