Every Sunday I post an original poem.
I. The Preacher
Poor Jenny Blade she spent her days
Whistling with her teakettles,
Humming tunes in bare wood rooms
And watching crop dust settle.
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I look forward to the interpretations of this one from some of the politically inclined among you. 🙂
IV.
Tiger-Shape
I hear the ancient creaking of trees too mighty
to support themselves tonight, the tired cackling
of monkeys, like men grown too old to understand
the world, or to stop pretending that they had, once.
His claws and beak, tools of hunger, classify
Kernels on a tree powdered into gold.
I wish I did not recognize myself in him.
Where is his murder? He marks his boundaries,
Removing wood from corn, placing corn
In gullet, no flock beyond the sky and caw
Of hunger. A metal thing, he is,
Ball-bearing eyes and hammered feathers
Rusting away. He sorts to understand,
Desperately separating grains from wood grain,
A glutton wasting half his food.
This is a poem about analysis, I think, about the impulse to understand, and about what we lose and gain in the process. Mostly lose, in this case.
For every fiddle found in old pawn shops
There is a gypsy less, with music torn away.
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