FOR JAMES TATE, OR MAYBE, THE NEW POPE
you hover
over the earth
never touching
your father
a helicopter
above clouds
on earth
we have seasons
winter for example
our legs reach the ground
as if we were just
the perfect height
get ready to bail out of my head
with your tiny parachute
and little breath
we are buried in snow
our microwave is against the wall
when you land, look for us
then you can warm your burrito
sing the songs we used to sing
before we were sad
2 comments:
This is really beautiful and I like the way you tied together the idea of the missing (Ff)athers (Tate's Lost Pilot) and the Absence that Dare Not Speak its Name (so stays continually Present). I think that's reverse St. Anselmism. But this is an unexpected poem, unexpected language, unexpected veering, and unexpected afterimage. Sort of like a bird. Which I guess all successful poems are. Sort of like a bird in those ways. No two seagulls ever look alike to me because usually two seagulls are fighting. Like poems do in their much nicer way. I apologize for using the word "beautiful" if you are allergic to it. Many people seem to be these days. But tis tis. Cheers.
William: thanks so much for this comment (and for linking on your blog.) I so appreciate it. I'm grateful for your response & analysis. And "No two seagulls ever look alike to me because usually two seagulls are fighting." Amazing. And I'm not allergic to 'beautiful.' Though, at least in my work, I maintain healthy rough-and-tumble relation to the notion. If I want to know what beautiful is, I ask a seagull. And reverse St. Anselmism. Something also to consider. Thanks again!
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