10-26-2012, 12:43 AM
I like this poem. I like this poem because I'm drunk to-day, and also on drugs. I hate drugs. I like this, as a climbing out hold. A hold on memories, marked up to the present, and hopeful for the future. If the future is worthy of hope, I don't know; but at least there is a future. Where the kids can discover the wasteland, and have a chance to make something out of it.
Memories are like dreams that cheat, with conscious control; thinkingly on their side. And so are poems about memories....Never does anyone enter the basement; but it has been entered, many times, by some and others. And so we get this description and elaboration of it. Sure no one spends enough time down there to get a genuine impression, based on reality; but reality is not good enough for the impressions the necessary distance involves, from a place like this. Or that; that old basement still here, and nobody knows quite while, but it is, and apparently, will keep up with its being there, for the children: and the children of the children?
I saw this basement of OURS, unlike anything I'd EVER seen. It's dark; a black sun hung there. Does it hang there now? it always only hung there. On the surface, it's warm, in that below the surface kind of way. Warm in that subterranean feeling that a man's used to not being used to. Ravens are flying, on other wings, wings of solemn, and carrion things, you now can look through without tampering with. Not to ruin the dignity and aura of the older, more dignified ruin. "A I sift through this place", Even a man that runs with angels and battles demons might mispronounce a foreign word; is this a 'typo', or an 'A' to confront a tattered, decrepit "Omega"? In this strange room of familiar things, even the most obvious correct utterances are mistaken.
Only a moment, only a moment that lasts forever in a poem, but in a basement of a few minutes is forgotten. I don't doubt there are deeper recesses of your brain, you, in the flash of a moment, decide not to acknowledge; and appropriately for decent poetry forget. A headache is worth a few confusing forgettings, or divergent hangovers.
"Outskirts", yes.
A rocking chair. The light in a dark world. How does it compare to the calls from the world above? And what is the difference? I guess there are things that can fill your nose with every breath. It happens sometimes.
Memories are like dreams that cheat, with conscious control; thinkingly on their side. And so are poems about memories....Never does anyone enter the basement; but it has been entered, many times, by some and others. And so we get this description and elaboration of it. Sure no one spends enough time down there to get a genuine impression, based on reality; but reality is not good enough for the impressions the necessary distance involves, from a place like this. Or that; that old basement still here, and nobody knows quite while, but it is, and apparently, will keep up with its being there, for the children: and the children of the children?
I saw this basement of OURS, unlike anything I'd EVER seen. It's dark; a black sun hung there. Does it hang there now? it always only hung there. On the surface, it's warm, in that below the surface kind of way. Warm in that subterranean feeling that a man's used to not being used to. Ravens are flying, on other wings, wings of solemn, and carrion things, you now can look through without tampering with. Not to ruin the dignity and aura of the older, more dignified ruin. "A I sift through this place", Even a man that runs with angels and battles demons might mispronounce a foreign word; is this a 'typo', or an 'A' to confront a tattered, decrepit "Omega"? In this strange room of familiar things, even the most obvious correct utterances are mistaken.
Only a moment, only a moment that lasts forever in a poem, but in a basement of a few minutes is forgotten. I don't doubt there are deeper recesses of your brain, you, in the flash of a moment, decide not to acknowledge; and appropriately for decent poetry forget. A headache is worth a few confusing forgettings, or divergent hangovers.
"Outskirts", yes.
A rocking chair. The light in a dark world. How does it compare to the calls from the world above? And what is the difference? I guess there are things that can fill your nose with every breath. It happens sometimes.