A fantastic poem that adheres, bur-like, and grows in the mind, seed-like. And read aloud, it works really well with pitch and sounds and rhythm.
This is another one of those Zambaras poems that could not be changed at all without great loss. For example, the plural of "pod" is crucial. And the "Untitled" makes me think of namelessness and mortality. And how we are all titled, so to speak, at birth, and later untitled.
It is almost a poem of altered consciousness, or maybe it simply is (that is, forget the "almost"); a kind of keen awareness not brought on by any actual intoxication or chemical high but by the ultra-sensitivity not only to life and death that one sometimes feels when in a cemetery (or anywhere else that has emotional impact) but simultaneously an extraordinary awareness of so much else, including language.
It would be possible to imagine various narratives for the poem. For example, a person alone in a cemetery, grieving, suddenly noticing the seed pods. Or someone among many other mourners, in his or her own world while the others speak or are, perhaps, also silent. The fact that the seed pods are bursting suggests the season. The fact that they are visible, daylight.
If I were to try to figure out the best three poems that have appeared in this blog since the blog burst upon the scene (with only the most pleasant of stings), I am not sure what the other two would be but this would definitely be in the trio of my favorites.
I was thinking about the poem after I wrote my comment and was sorry I hadn't commented on a pun, "bur" and "brr" -- the freezing sting that thinking about one's own death, or a loved one's, inflicts.
A fantastic poem that adheres, bur-like, and grows in the mind, seed-like. And read aloud, it works really well with pitch and sounds and rhythm.
ReplyDeleteThis is another one of those Zambaras poems that could not be changed at all without great loss. For example, the plural of "pod" is crucial. And the "Untitled" makes me think of namelessness and mortality. And how we are all titled, so to speak, at birth, and later untitled.
It is almost a poem of altered consciousness, or maybe it simply is (that is, forget the "almost"); a kind of keen awareness not brought on by any actual intoxication or chemical high but by the ultra-sensitivity not only to life and death that one sometimes feels when in a cemetery (or anywhere else that has emotional impact) but simultaneously an extraordinary awareness of so much else, including language.
It would be possible to imagine various narratives for the poem. For example, a person alone in a cemetery, grieving, suddenly noticing the seed pods. Or someone among many other mourners, in his or her own world while the others speak or are, perhaps, also silent. The fact that the seed pods are bursting suggests the season. The fact that they are visible, daylight.
If I were to try to figure out the best three poems that have appeared in this blog since the blog burst upon the scene (with only the most pleasant of stings), I am not sure what the other two would be but this would definitely be in the trio of my favorites.
John,
ReplyDeleteWhat can I say after all the above except that every poet should be fortunate enough to have such an attentive, intelligent reader.
I was thinking about the poem after I wrote my comment and was sorry I hadn't commented on a pun, "bur" and "brr" -- the freezing sting that thinking about one's own death, or a loved one's, inflicts.
ReplyDelete