Your name brings forth
the images – your images
and those of the ones you harboured:
the people, days, water
(not contained, it passed by)
feelings, lives, memories
(not contain-able, they passed by)
or minutes, hours, days, seasons
I spent on your steps, ,my life weaved
around you in its circadian rhythm.
They flow through the tip of my pen
taking shape as the blue of the ink
shapes strange things – words –
that were in the mind-womb
before being thrown out, words
that dirty the pristine, blank space –
and create something of worth?
They are true, aren’t they?
Digression’s good, isn’t it?
A poem too, is true
although made vomitingly sick
”by the pale cast of thought” before
the retching begins that finally
transfers words to their surface graves.
But what can I do?
When a polyphony I detect
It’s not just one man within
that hates to follow my conscious agenda;
there’s a full battalion
and each member –
trying to speak in a simultaneous cacophony
with an array of meanings and voices
arrayed variously – for or against –
Enough of this meta- stuff!
Return to the days and the level of material
materially verifiable facts.
That’s what i’d planned initially
but I’ve reached the end of my tether