Normally, I Don't Care for Poetry.

[becksue]

But I read this poem by David St. John in the Paris Review while waiting at the dentist's office the other day and I am oddly fascinated by it.  Haven't gone back through it yet and analyzed it, but it spoke to me somehow.  I think it had something to do with . . . .

Three Jade Dice

The blonde carrying the tote bag full of bones
Is dressed in a chiffon blouse printed with

Persimmon-colored butterflies
& all across the desert

The sound of
Three jade dice rattling in an old man's palm --

I wish I could tell you that it's time for coffee
I wish I could tell you that the card table

Carved of onyx & ivory
Supports a life of orgasmic hope & certain prosperity

I wish I could tell you the legs of the piano reach
All the way to the ground just as

I wish I could tell you the melody of the forgotten
Is as beautiful as the melody of the desired

& I wish you'd have waited for me there beneath the sign
Of the Hotel Mallarme or almost anywhere you claimed

You'd wait for me as those tall altars of amber dissolved
& each soft socket gathered up its lace of ash

I think it has to do with the title: Three Jade Dice.  I'm trying to imagine the sound of jade on jade and no other noise across the expanse of an entire desert.  Does it sound hollow?  Does it sound lively?  Does it sound hopeful or depressing?  A rattle, he writes, it's the rattle of jade on jade.  Onyx and ivory -- black and white, opaque materials, shiny and lovely, but not jade.  Jade is supposed to look, almost, alive.  Nephrite and jadeite, the two types of jade ('yu' in Chinese), are supposed to have an energy in them from the earth.  They're supposed to bring good luck.  Strong materials and precious; the silver and gold of the East.  Beautiful.

I'm still figuring out Mr St. John's poem; nevertheless, I think it's lovely.