.
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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