|
he is trying to
write down a book he wrote years ago in his head
an empty candlestick on the windowsill each
day
of his life he wakes in paris to the sound of vivaldi in summer
and finds the space programme fascinating since he still doesn't
know
how radio works as in the
progress of art the aim is finally
to make rules the next generation can break more cleverly
this
morning he has a letter from his father saying "i have
set my face
as a flint against a washbasin in the lavatory. it seems to
me
almost too absurd and sybaritic."
how
they still don't know
where power lies or how to effect change
he clings to a child's book called "all my things"
which says:
ball (a picture of a ball) drum (a picture of a drum) book (a
picture of a book)
all one evening he draws on his left arm with felt-tipped pens
an intricate pattern
feels how the pain does give protection
and in the morning finds faint repetitions on the sheets, the
inside
of his thigh, his forehead
reaching
this point
he sees that he has written pain for paint
and
it works better
--Tom Raworth
(published in Lion Lion, London: Trigram Press,
1970)
|
Pulsar
by Gene Frumkin
Poem
For My 60th Birthday
by Dick Allen
Now
That I Know What Feverfew Looks Like
by Elaine Equi
South
America
by Tom Raworth
Words
of Wisdom
by Mark Pawlak
The
Art of Poetry
by Bobby Byrd
Some
Anthropology
by Michael Heller
The
Reality Executive
by James V. Cervantes
Those
Sunday Afternoons
by Charles O. Hartman
The
News from Mars
by Wendy Battin
|