AFTER THOMAS WYATT
for W.B. Keckler
the body is a fool
like clouds in a mall where
someone drops a lucky penny
soon there will be no pennies
luck will migrate
Anger, Wrath, Waste, and Noise
are my children now
in school
what made me
monster of elsewhere
just as thousands
crowd the parking lot
trying to lego shadows
into something to love
something sad
like nature
*
I've been reading Sanskrit of the Body by W.B. Keckler. There is really some remarkable writing in this book. The line, "Without language, there are too many senses," took my breath away. Good thing. I was taking too many breaths. I mean, let's leave some air for the fish, eh? My one quibble with the book? My body is Coptic.
So, here's a little (draft* of a) poem based on Wyatt's "Description of a Gun." Though all poems are drafts. Breezes through the cracks, breathing, life drafts, checkers on the ether.
3 comments:
I see your body as more Coptic too, Gary. The sinuosities and sensuosities of Klee's spaghetti are also nice, when he goes that direction. Thanks for the kind words on the book, which came out several lifetimes ago, I suppose. Everybody started actually getting Sanskrit tats after it came out, rendering the title and that metaphor rather silly. I like your poem, grim or Grimm or not. Cheers. And Choirs. To the makar.
Favorite lines: "soon there will be no pennies / luck will migrate." I'm reminded of a Zen koan: What was your luck before pennies were minted?"
Glad you like the poem, Sr. Keckler. I do like the idea of people getting tats that they can't read. I like it almost as much as misspelled (or misspelled) tats. & Craig, My two cents worth koan: The less change, the more things stay the same.
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