But, I'm dishonest
If I were honest,
I’d write you and say I called
to just hear your voice, to feel
the chemicals that fall
like a diligent mist within my brain
when I think or write
the bodies of your name.
But, I’m dishonest, so I’ll tell you
that to my right, a woman
just dropped a can of apricots
and it rolled down the train car
to where a man leaned out
to return it to her hand.
by jerry gordon
6.11.10
I’d write you and say I called
to just hear your voice, to feel
the chemicals that fall
like a diligent mist within my brain
when I think or write
the bodies of your name.
But, I’m dishonest, so I’ll tell you
that to my right, a woman
just dropped a can of apricots
and it rolled down the train car
to where a man leaned out
to return it to her hand.
by jerry gordon
6.11.10
posted by jerry at 5:26 AM
1 Comments:
Ha! Another breathtaking piece!
Maybe then this is the place where I post my little article.
How is it I'm
content with this
perfection?
Reading YOU, Poems by Jerry Gordon, Three Cornered Moon Press, 2007
(A poem of sorts about a collection of poems)
Like a diamond miner, YOU extracts the beauty in all the places - the celestial and, more delectably, the mundane. A probe is lowered into "a room beneath the street," an exceptional ear is exposed to "a sutra sung for every train car and every crack in the concrete," and a "mind breathing close."
I plugged myself into the delicate machinery of the photocopied pages, I let it inject into my poetic vein what is outside of myself. The stuff, in a flash, travelled through the intimate vessel and spoke to the parts that do not know language but know all. I bathed in beauty, I was happy, enveloped in a poetic daze, with a spark in lieu of a heart, born out of the meeting on a torn page of an author with his reader. Beauty was floating all around me and pushed the ecstatic rose to bloom inside. I was linked by a golden thread to YOU, to all. I knew I was safe in this quantum writer's laboratory where minute details are observed with no other bias than the benevolence that should always accompany the extraction of truth and beauty. I knew I was saved.
The room, the street, the crack, the breath, perhaps indeed they were outer trivial occurrences, but it is his fortunate eye and it is his ear - it is the shape of his soul - that sculpted the folds and the secret corners into reality. I contemplated the contemplation and his arrangement of the external elements. I witnessed "a torn piece of gold paper from a cigarette box" turn into a monument. I marvelled at scraps of the hidden inner material, which so freely seem to offer themselves to the filigree worker's attention, to be woven into such miraculous moments.
How beautifully you are "talking about architecture." Perhaps because the architecture is breathtaking and there is no other way to talk about it.
niluferplum, a reader's poetic orgasms, 10th June 2010
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