01-30-2016, 01:50 PM
There is a deliberate tautology, or almost-tautology, that is not a wasting of words but rather it draws attention to the differences between them. The difference between imagining something and seeing it in reality is larger than many people will believe, especially when it's the difference between watching someone killed on a Youtube video and actually seeing someone's life end before your eyes. In this, I find a hint of the good old Wild West-style lynching but instead of the expected justice, what it does is galvanise two "criminals" into unified action. The metaphor is strong and there's not a word wasted here.
I am very proud of Rickey. I remember publishing a poem of his way back in 2008, knowing that he'd be one to watch -- and I'm incredibly happy to see that he's had the determination to live up to his talent and promise.
The poem we chose back then was called "Today", for those who are interested:
TODAY
I have made the decision: to pronounce ululation differently than I was
taught while I seep into the wood of this funeral pew and follow
the deep lines buried within your forehead; here,
as passersby paint the edges of their eyes with tears and I have no more
words for them but the chaw of a tongue against my teeth and they
apologize to me as if their hands were being nailed to the two daggers
crossed under their chins and I were Roman; here,
as the cool comfort of organs presses through the air lining our lips, you
break past our wail and carry on; or to sleep, dream
into the even copper of your cheek, to see you eagle
across the skin of the Tallahatchie, telling: Mamma, Mamma, this is
no dream.
(Shakespeare's Monkey Revue, Vol. 1 Issue 3, April 2008)
I am very proud of Rickey. I remember publishing a poem of his way back in 2008, knowing that he'd be one to watch -- and I'm incredibly happy to see that he's had the determination to live up to his talent and promise.
The poem we chose back then was called "Today", for those who are interested:
TODAY
I have made the decision: to pronounce ululation differently than I was
taught while I seep into the wood of this funeral pew and follow
the deep lines buried within your forehead; here,
as passersby paint the edges of their eyes with tears and I have no more
words for them but the chaw of a tongue against my teeth and they
apologize to me as if their hands were being nailed to the two daggers
crossed under their chins and I were Roman; here,
as the cool comfort of organs presses through the air lining our lips, you
break past our wail and carry on; or to sleep, dream
into the even copper of your cheek, to see you eagle
across the skin of the Tallahatchie, telling: Mamma, Mamma, this is
no dream.
(Shakespeare's Monkey Revue, Vol. 1 Issue 3, April 2008)