Repetitions, and: No Place Like, and: A Foolish Consistency
2009; Colorado State University; Volume: 36; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/col.2009.0053
ISSN2325-730X
Autores Tópico(s)Poetry Analysis and Criticism
Resumo86 jennifer moxley Repetitions When fixed into my explanations this phrase provided ballast—canned goods for a journey that promised to be long, and that was good. “Make it new.” I said and thought it, held it up against destruction: how I loved the world I was denied. The idea when it seemed to matter. Uncharted was not our heritage, though well-trod-upon bravado still pleases the young. Those looking to deny the efforts. And why not, they come to nothing. The tacky midlife denouement. It too grows boring. Not so the figure: the shadow beneath the line naively cast at outset, the depth and not the distance. Let me say it: form is always more than a bonded agreement with vague utterance. It changes everything, at least at first. But concentrate. Anyone who falls for a middling story can belong. The “language of men” after all. I once espoused it but never spoke it, that is except in artifice. This all matters, truthfully. I cared, I did. Though the uncharted was not my heritage, I was new to it, and it to me and it seemed compelling. Though some said “serious” or “important.” I repeat the phrase: “no ideas but in things” etc. Others listen. Small gestures to prove I can think. How different the moment of insight. It seems to be CRSUM09 poetry.indd 86 5/22/2009 12:37:04 PM 87 my mistake. “Poetry makes nothing happen.” Though saying so causes quite the stir. And wasn’t it decided that “nothing” was superior to “something”? The white prophets of absence. Which bears a stamp some claim to see and speak for. Ballast, like two stinking whale heads suspended on either side of the ship, banging against the hull, the thud of destructive profit. Nobility. Keep to the path. Come up with something to say. “Uncharted was not my heritage,” things were named when I got here, and now I can look them up. Pictures even. I learned that those on a murderous mission never attend to a leaking ship. But we’ll all die! Then you’d better write this down. So long civilized world. Orchestrated by the cathedrals of capital your death bequeaths a moby debt to these dim lands of peace. Dim indeed. CRSUM09 poetry.indd 87 5/22/2009 12:37:04 PM 88 jennifer moxley No Place Like Never a prophet at the curb of what was once called “home” insidious word prohibition Never a prophet in the adopted land ill-fitting itself into the familiar wandering among signposts and lawns, dreaming of the lost Eden touched trying to find the insidious word and warmth like loyal Lassie risking her life by swimming the rushing Tweed half-dead, mud-drenched, and bone tired, a dog fugitive from booted cruelty, whips, and chains, lying flat beside the kindly cottage for the kindly old couple to find would that Dame May Whitty lay beyond this row of imposing doors (they lie you know) down Main Street hoping to share her milky ration, a methodical brushing and words: soothing, sweet oft repeated there there When in Rome, Berlioz thought only of Paris though she had jilted him and wrote to say so when he crossed the border the masters gathered to wave their hands “good riddance” keep your exhausting brilliance at a handsome distance Born in the south, he chose the city that bespoke his Symphonie Fantastique streets to match the grandeur of a young man’s extravagant enterprise CRSUM09 poetry.indd 88 5/22/2009 12:37:04 PM 89 but instead of praise he was greeted with paranoia silence brutal confusion When in Paris, I thought only of you “sitting in a park” etc. the warmth of the sun on black tights, palm knowledge in Balboa Park longing for the comfort of a known address stenciled on the curbside But all my blood ties were by that time undone, and I could not return except by resumé and failed unloved or so it felt, by what refused me in its history Scenes in which our memories are set resist us with their silence Better not to seek them out better to stay...
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