Incense
The hum in the head does not say
Anything except deceased cells, fear
In the hair follicles, dust in the mind.
There is of course a song, then a picture
Loud and brave, beauty and history-
I hang my thoughts on the computer thing
The images there are larger than my life
And every one’s life and river and water
Mountains and people dead and Sanskrit
Chants addressed to the dead, my people,
Who are no longer my people, except
Through the connectivity of a dark priest.
There are clay-pots of bones and boats
In the holy rivers and priest chanting.
We have thought of transience and rain
Rivers overflowing on the highways
Dismal failures and temporary successes
Then finally some beauty-talk in art
And literature, deep thoughts, mystery
And everything coming to an end
As though there was no beginning.
Yet the colors went on all the while
And they smelled nice like incense.
|
|
Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience.
|
|