Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

April 12, 2005




I've lost too many connections; my soul,
the part of the mind that burns,
is in mourning; it thirsts
for the return of my gone others
the way a pool in the North waits
for birds, after new green buds
remind her of them. A still pond,
yes, and yet beneath the still, see
how the reeds grow,
how the sands lie, just so?
(It never would have been
without them.)


I've missed too many connections; should be
five transefers along by now, but truth is
I stumbled somehow on the lip
of the cradle, have merely crawled
along since. I shoulder too many anxieties,
and they make lousy passengers:
heavy as children and sore as lice.
I could count my burdens forever
and never be done.
(Though in truth, damn the Trickster,
there's really just one.)


I have too many heads,
and each one is far too
certain of itself; the calamity,
understand, occurs in their inability
to reconcile differences.
Angry, hungry,
lusty, laughing.
(Please understand that
there is one of them laughing.)

Anyone want to go for coffee? I have a Seattle hangover.

FYI: this poem is tongue in cheek. Remember Prufrock?

Image: "T.S. Elliot Forgets His Keys," by M.E.
April (is the cruelest month!) 2000.

Posted by Delire at April 12, 2005 11:45 AM