Stories and poems

"The metaphoric image of 'orphan lines' is a contrivance of the detached onlooker to whom the verbal art of continuous correspondences remains aesthetically alien. Orphan lines in poetry of pervasive parallels are a contradiction in terms, since whatever the status of a line, all its structure and functions are indissolubly interlaced with the near and distant verbal environment, and the task of linguistic analysis is to disclose the levels of this coaction. When seen from the inside of the parallelistic system, the supposed orphanhood, like any other componential status, turns into a network of multifarious compelling affinities.'
Roman JAKOBSON, "Grammatical Parallelism and its Russian Facet", Language, 42/2, 1966, pp. 399-429, p. 428-429

Monday, November 30, 2015

Finishing the document

So about a month and a half ago I turned in my dissertation.

I realized today that, as I have been writing that book for so long, another one was being written, in the shadows, so to speak, and that I also have ten years of poems, at least, written on paper bags, the backs of envelopes, the bits and scraps of other projects, in journals, each one unfinished. There are in fact so many that I could beat my record and certainly post more than just a few year on here while I think of what to do with them.

And now I have the head space to do so.

And the Moon is in Leo, which makes one, usually so private, with my Black Moon Lilith in the eighth house, audacious, wanting to put oneself out there, here we go. For, in spite of the lover who thought himself clever to call me so, I am no Emily Dickinson. I will not keep all these poems in drawers. Every few days or so, I will pick one out of the piles on my desk, and if I like it I will post it and I will throw away the ones I don't. And who cares if there isn't any reason anymore to write poetry and if I'm all out of sync with the times.

They were meant to be read by someone, by you, though I didn't always think so, though it isn't always true.

This one I wrote during the last few weeks of writing. It's called 

Finishing the document 

My small heart a rabbit
I leap and thump
I don't know why
a basket that didn't burn
a relic untouched
a body that rose from the dead
a dream she lost an eye
they retreated to their rooms.

I've loved before now,
I have, what hurt
to let go of, to
love again, what prayer,
what bell,
I rang the one
in my heart
it was in tune with yours.

What's inside
so strong one moment
so fleeting then. 

I think, perhaps, it captures some of the frenzy of that last month of writing, of what I was reading and feeling, of what it's like to finish a long project.

No comments:

Post a Comment