And she can see no reasons/Cus there are no reasons
Though I find the majority of published poetry I read boring and/or pretentious and/or formulaic, This guy actually has some good poems. I particularly liked "Sun" and "Stone."
Though I don't know if I'd refer to him as "[T]he foremost experimental poet of his generation and perhaps of the last several generations." I mean, do they even know how many poets each generation is likely to turn out? Or that each poet of a new generation that doesn't mimic the generation before is automatically "experimental?"
Right. Anyway. So since I haven't posted (or for that matter written) much poetry in a while, and since that was the reason I originally started this journal, here, without furter ado, is a new poem I can attribute to Work, Michael Palmer, and Intercultural Communications class.
---
"Smell of Strangers"
Delivery man
smelling of metal and sweat
and the fizz of unfired synapses,
too lazy to read
the sign on the door
like I am too lazy to read,
sometimes;
feeling foolish
in the wrong office,
among the wrong strangers,
like I feel foolish sometimes.
I can still look down on him,
tall man in front of my low desk,
like he looks down on me actually.
If I try hard enough I won't remember
that inside each man is a person,
like inside each woman is a person,
and somewhere between all this skin we forget-
when the smell of strangers is too strong,
where unfamiliar is always wrong
I'll become
lost and anonymous in the maze of flesh.
---
Not that I'm calling it great poetry or anything, but at least it's something, and I'm pretty sure it's not awful.
More:
My mom always forgets things that I tell her. You can attribute this to her age, menopause, alcoholism, what-have-you. Last night as I was falling asleep I heard two loud banging/rummaging noises in the dining room/kitchen area, which was unusual enough to give both Bela and me a little start. This morning as I was making breakfast she said to me "Did you wake up at all last night?" "No, why?" "Because when I woke up this morning the washing machine was open and this cup [a piece of pottery I made, usually on a shelf] was on the counter." "Well I did hear two loud banging noises as I was falling asleep, it was probably you." Then I pointed out to her that greater-frequency-than-usual forgetfulness and wandering are two of the first signs of Alzheimer's. She said, "I'll have to ask Nanny if I was a sleepwalker when I was younger, I forget." I said, "I thought Tice was the sleepwalker. He peed in Mindy's room that time cus he thought it was the bathroom?"
School started yesterday. Long day. I won't be sane much for a while.
Though I don't know if I'd refer to him as "[T]he foremost experimental poet of his generation and perhaps of the last several generations." I mean, do they even know how many poets each generation is likely to turn out? Or that each poet of a new generation that doesn't mimic the generation before is automatically "experimental?"
Right. Anyway. So since I haven't posted (or for that matter written) much poetry in a while, and since that was the reason I originally started this journal, here, without furter ado, is a new poem I can attribute to Work, Michael Palmer, and Intercultural Communications class.
---
"Smell of Strangers"
Delivery man
smelling of metal and sweat
and the fizz of unfired synapses,
too lazy to read
the sign on the door
like I am too lazy to read,
sometimes;
feeling foolish
in the wrong office,
among the wrong strangers,
like I feel foolish sometimes.
I can still look down on him,
tall man in front of my low desk,
like he looks down on me actually.
If I try hard enough I won't remember
that inside each man is a person,
like inside each woman is a person,
and somewhere between all this skin we forget-
when the smell of strangers is too strong,
where unfamiliar is always wrong
I'll become
lost and anonymous in the maze of flesh.
---
Not that I'm calling it great poetry or anything, but at least it's something, and I'm pretty sure it's not awful.
More:
My mom always forgets things that I tell her. You can attribute this to her age, menopause, alcoholism, what-have-you. Last night as I was falling asleep I heard two loud banging/rummaging noises in the dining room/kitchen area, which was unusual enough to give both Bela and me a little start. This morning as I was making breakfast she said to me "Did you wake up at all last night?" "No, why?" "Because when I woke up this morning the washing machine was open and this cup [a piece of pottery I made, usually on a shelf] was on the counter." "Well I did hear two loud banging noises as I was falling asleep, it was probably you." Then I pointed out to her that greater-frequency-than-usual forgetfulness and wandering are two of the first signs of Alzheimer's. She said, "I'll have to ask Nanny if I was a sleepwalker when I was younger, I forget." I said, "I thought Tice was the sleepwalker. He peed in Mindy's room that time cus he thought it was the bathroom?"
School started yesterday. Long day. I won't be sane much for a while.