Rooms For Crooked Music
Rooms For Crooked Music
i
Predator spirit, colour of golden sums
numbering each & each in drawn out order.
Frederick Nietzsche with a prelude in rhymes
reading collusions as signs of recurrence.
Endless song in the middle distance
of the open, deafening ear.
Imperial, windy birds flapping. Ladybugs.
Fantastic origins that cope by going missing.
This moment I have no plan like a last plan –
just talking pictures behind the retina. Oh.
ii
The paperboy didn't come this morning
so I read yesterday over again.
Arson in Beaumont, A Streetcar Named Desire
to be staged in drag. Bay Day Sale tomorrow – that's today.
Under my tongue, game of gaps.
In the milestone closet, weight of sleeves.
Over the pitch of each & each a strumming
looseness of drained endings.
Or the dead letterbox where Heidegger snoozes
waiting on your call/fall.
iii
In the slant dream I stand straight.
Crooked trees, right & left of me, hold up the sky.
Overgrown dirt paths, clearings.
Branches clutching clouds using ruined hands.
I hear – but I don't hear – commanding voice.
There is god – or not – in not tuning in.
Maybe the dark is a wise holding pattern.
Maybe this is where I don't know how to land.
Numbering want, each & each.
Sleep stilled & still there's stir.
iv
For providing contrast, I like my walls white,
even when they're white walls stonewalling.
Outside of each & each, there's this & every other
not figured out – child molesters, languid priests
with pockets full of sucking stones – Angelfish
tattoos on burly shoulders. Mimicry, brassy chuckles.
I hang my pictures straight, & they hang crooked –
invite you for dinner, hoping you can't come.
Who am I to be asking why
so much of the world is like this?
posted by djuana at 12:11 PM
5 Comments:
I think that the adding of "rooms" to the section numbers clarifies the poem somehow. I like to see and hear at the same time and I think that they do not have to be exactly the same.
I am particularly partial to the third stanza here. I love those crooked trees holding up the sky.
y
well i likes the sucking stones of priests
and this part, also
There is god – or not – in not tuning in.
Maybe the dark is a wise holding pattern.
that movement, the whole of that movement, is the kind of music that speaks to me.
the everyday below and above it
as contrast. isnt't that how insites come?
so, you're gonna be blogging it now?
i think i agree with a lot of what ankush said about blogs.
i still want to see them as diaries. silly, huh?
xol
Djuana-
Well, these rooms are wonderful. I listened to your voice as I read along, and it was a beautiful experience. It helped solidify the poem for me, and added a richness to the experience that print alone can't begin to touch.
This intimacy is so profound that I can hardly put it into words. Somehow the printed page alone is there in a kind of take me or leave me way, where the human voice demands and obtains the body's full attention.
How cool to have this opportunity.
And I love the work, Dj. It's strong and direct and still wonderfully slant and odd.
Hallmarks of good poetry.
yrs-
Scott
Scott you're very generous, thanks. Yes intimacy, & a special kind, listening to a poem read aloud, not at a public reading with a whole bunch of other people, but all alone at your computer. I don't know, it is sort of like the poem is specifically there for you! Doing audioblogs has made me think of buying some of those taped readings by the famous, I think I'd like the experience of that. What I really want of course is all these people I know on line to do audio, I'm really hungry to hear them read! xo
Jack - a cool thought. I especially like:
its wings wrinkly-thin as a new butterfly's.xo
I particular found the impact made more solid reading along with the audio post. Palpable, beautiful. More so accompanied.
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