If I speak of my sweetheart, and if i sing of my mother, and tears come to my eyes now and then, realize how my life is punctuated like bullets from a tommy gun: brief light, much darkness. How impaired we are ! Love is left to me like tattered linen, and no one left to mend it. I only live in the wind and storm. I pray only in the cathedral of the clouds. Let our love flow again to the sea...
Let the Colorado flow to the sea again.
End the interlude of our unnatural and selfish sleep and greed.
Let our songs never end.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
6 comments:
Oh, Montag, this is a beautiful prose poem. At your daughter talk blog yet.
If I speak of my sweetheart hooked me . . . tattered linen . . . all of it is lovely
I was hung up on the "table set with line" =
"table set with linen" = "tombstone draped with linen"
image from the poem.
Only this beauty forfends me despairing of the world... but, ironically, I only feel despair at what the beautiful shows me.
Your comments make me feel not quite as redundant and superfluous as I usually do. My worst time is sitting down to do this, and not having a single notion in my head. Then, before you know it, I'm singing like an Irishman, nay, like Ossian himself!
I, too, know the feeling of sitting down with absolutely nothing to say. What's even worse is the feeling that you have said absolutely nothing after you spend 15 to 30 minutes typing something up.
What surprises me is the absolute funk of the feeling of having nothing to say, then sitting down and having an enormous flood of notions pour over me, like a big old jug of gatorade !
That, alas, is an uncommon event for me.
I have everything pent up, since from my youth people would find other things to do when I opened my mouth to speak.
Post a Comment