Wednesday, January 16, 2019

Another Overt Opportunity

Poetry is sculpture by an alien who somehow catches visions
of a species no one in her circle knows, could know, or knew,
to which the poet (arguably inadvisedly) could not not grant
a view. Knowing that she’d get the gong, missed a crucial clue,
could not account for why it suddenly took over as the all but
senseless business she is driven to display to you. Motionless
protuberances with a strange alacrity – oxymorons which,
with an immeasurable unseen swiftness, somehow managed
powerfully to move. Had she come upon new unforeseen
additions to Existence’s capacities? Veracities to somebody
somewhere? Which to her were too devoid of any sense
to think that anyone in her contingent (which at its center
featured her) would even try to want to be aware? But they
were what she had to work with: she had to take the dare.
Title it ‘Expressions’? Whose, though, and of what? Hers,
too obvious to say. But she felt – and feeling was an overt
opportunity – that this had had to come her way, and she
had had to give it form, short or long, however inexcusably,
confusedly without a point, all its machinations out of joint,
perpetually wrong. What’s more, in all its blunders, gusts
and fuss, she knew she’d always have to send the thing to us.

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