Daily I get up at around 3 AM and wait for 3.30AM to get back to sleep .Then I don’t get back to sleep but to the wakefulness of a possible poem. The wakefulness works out to a poem a day ,now running serially at 2180.
The poem comes hanging by the slender thread of a random word from other people’s literature. Other people thought other things but a word from them triggers a poem a day, which is my night a day.
A poem marks my time, the beginning of another day in the balance of whatever number of days is left of me. A poem a day is a night a day, the successful completion of a day’s night.
Pound is my my favorite image maker, always into the joy of piling images on images , so far away in time ,yet so much in my reality. Histrion is an actor of bit parts . A morning poet’s images are his bit parts, acting them out for his ancestors , who are broken images of his reality.
For now I am imaging an image, a pound of 1920’s loveliness. The poet-photographer has a lot of visual loveliness to cope with. A photographers images are poetry derived from little spaces between seeing and reality, from imaging of apparitions, a dream sequence between episodes of sleep.
A pound of loveliness was image.
As a poet’s mask one wore image,
Of a histrion of many apparitions,
In the world crafted as the image.
The world is apparition’s images,
In its overlapping and coinciding,
Many suns falling on one another
Beyond mountains concurrently.
(reference is to Ezra Pound’s poem Histrion)
O’Hara frankly tells the sun to go away. The sun says his poems may not be the best but seem ok.
He must frankly look up more often and find the sun in the fire island .
Poet says please hang on for a while. But the sun says ,embracing the western sky, I can’t. They are calling me.
They are calling you too. Who are they? You will know.
In the meanwhile the earth says you should look down, more often. That is where your poems are dust.
This morning we were led up ,by words, to intact mornings. Icarus failed to fly on waxen wings and dropped down peacefully as the farmers furrowed their land. Our monkey God rose to meet the sun fruit only to return with a red apple mouth .
It did not matter we failed . Our mornings were intact.
The almond tree forgot all about the maroon leaves it had dropped a few weeks ago. It is now green spring in its leaves. A pocket music sang of the many women of Krishna with only one in his heart.
In the neighbor green bench there is now an absence where was a stretching girl. Girl now stretches morning runs, clockwise.
The song in the pocket asks Radha why she is not singing her love song.
It does not matter we have failed.
The farmers quietly plough lands
And sun is burning in eastern sky
And vow, our mornings are intact
On the rocks were silhouettes of two vultures . They may be waiting for the body to turn carrion. We hear the poet’s sister went to the nature camp as desired by her nature loving mom and returned with a deep and abiding knowledge of taxidermy.
Meanwhile the sun is set up in the sky and the flies go about their business .
In the morning poem, the wild geese went about their business with the sun in his sky. In the family of things, here, we have a gutter leaking like bodies turning carrion while the vultures wait it out on the rocks .
Currently we are busy with the dead
In fine art and science of taxidermy,
Smelling foul like the leaking gutter.
We hate to see gutter bodies leaking.
We let them dry on a roof in the sun.
Meanwhile maggots are celebrating
The wild geese doing their business.
This morning we had bugs in our poem, following our yesterday’s chemical raid on them. They were our bed fellows who would have sat with us in movies popping corn and come home on our taxi backs.
The bug has a life span of 23 days. A day or two less from it should not be much of a sin. We share our lives with them, our sleeps and by and by, our deaths. They are our strange bed fellows and we belong to the same dust.
What bugs us is we have to kill those
Who were sleeping with us dreaming
Of death, its pre-eminence in bodies.
They were in bed with us like women,
Watched movies with us popping corn
Came with us riding on our taxi backs.
I am back to the green bench after three days.
This morning I heard the song about a meaningful person, the one who has a different meaning from what his words say. Like meaningful poets who get their meaning in small things and find the God of small things.
Poet says moment knows. You do not know what moment knows. In the penultimate moment you know what the moment knows. In the penultimate analysis , you are one up on fate. You are meaningful.
I get up from the green bench and walk to the park gate. I look back to find the presence I left in the bench. Or rather, my absence in the bench. Can one find one’s absence? asks the social reformer painted with ghoulish eyes on the park wall, meaningfully.
In the penultimate moment I know everything of what the moment knows.