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Last edited by grant hayes; 12-25-2017, 05:28 PM. -
Grant, This is exquisitely sculpted and masterful in its flow! Even Tanner thinks he understands much of it. The intelligence behind your use of simple language here is astonishing, but not
unexpected coming from you. I especially love the following lines:
I crave to be breath
alone and rid of matter’s twist
and snap or just to vanish
perish now
I short that wire behind my eyes
that fires up every vein with bursting
stars
Any additional exegesis or insight you could provide would be welcomed. Thank You.-
Even I think I understand much of it, Tanner. The lines you cite are about that sense of burden in material being and the impulse to escape it somehow. The shorting of the wire is the deliberate move to cut the flow of dismal impressions, in the interests of sanity. I didn't want to recommend complacency, only to express that moment of wanting it all to stop.
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First off--- Poetry is about Neuro Linguistic Programming, is it not?
That is what the "trick" Bukowski would talk about. That Volte- the pivot- Centuries rest on One Bare length of "Comprehension" yet Gosis, would be, as I am feeling, Instead of teaching, learning. Auto-didactic, buried, like cables. Telluric maybe?
Here is my take;
You come in, you had tripped over your coffee and newspaper to get to the Poem station.
You write, and you break the corner in half (I don't care if you look at me, don't look at me, i am not looking at you, We have been here before".
Next is the shocke, as I see it:
My own privacy, and the heart's skip'pt beat: Introversion, like some culture from which above some Sentience you are slightly knowing of. Starts to suddenly Forcefully, brutishly intrude. The shock of being caught with your pants down? lol...
The fugue,,, next, of the names. Rapid fire association, as if someone 'did' disturb you while writing the poem; the modesty, and the catching of your tongue, through That.
The middle, yes, Tanner was right: Exquisite! I can see the edges begin to forme, of the breath, and its 28 grams of soul. Faced with "this" again"
Busy. Busy-ness. Mill -- metropolis.
The lines - twist - vanish - perish ... bravadae!
And then the sinking in.
I thought that that was like, something ultraviolet, like seeing Kingdoms. One Piece. a Fel. From an Elf.
Behind your eyes, that red idea came, and went; you're not here to hold on to it too tight, you'e merely "born to hustle roses down the avenue of the dead." as Buk put it.
The ending was nice, flat. Not too bright. Sombre-- The culmination of an introvert, introspective, and fractally dealing with the entailment of that "Inspection."
The resigned end. The sorrow, not melodramatic; but perfect! Empty animal stares, almost stale.
People call some things mean mugging.
People, Mexicans, stand very close, and I imagine look you directly in the eye, depending on the dependent.
You point to an inversion, I think, in the poetry, and the delineation of the "dramatis personae" -- is it blown wide open, or is "it" the speaker showing us, um... the fact that Nothing Matters, but the end of the poem, which is a slam dunk, if i must say so myself. But more muted, if you see what I mean.
Tinged with misanthropy at the end. Where it began, it surely went through many iterations of this whole "ontos" if that's the word.
Thanks, a real treat! <3
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There is so much literal and metaphorical depth in your work, and this is no exception.
Your surgical diction, serves to make the piece even more emphatic.
Love the Jeremiah, Cassandra reference, especially.
Your style is so unique, that I would recognize it instantly, and yet, each poem has a flow of its own.
This is not easily achieved, and yet, you make it seem effortless, as if you were to the quill, born.
You are so consistently, artistically eloquent, that I sometimes think, you are taken for granted.
This is is a shame. For your poetic prowess is worthy to be read and re-read.
The body of work you have compiled in this space, alone, is easily a publishable compilation.
Unfortunately, I have been battling illness, and am a little behind on my reading, but this is surely not due to a lack of appreciation, but rather a lack of physical energy, and mental fatigue.
No matter how low things get, your work is ALWAYS a welcome read.
Thank you.Comment
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Many thanks for this very gracious praise, Dwayne. I am sad to know that you are still battling illness; it humbles me that you would write me such kindly lines while so fatigued. You may be interested to know I have collated about forty poems into a 'canon' of sorts, most of which I've posted here at some stage. I feel there should be some longer pieces in this corpus, but such a work still eludes my grasp.
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I am glad you did not use Alexandra, Grant in you wonderful poem for poor Cassandra although fairest was doomed to have her prophecies ignored in disbelief as was Jeremiah, so if I was in those shoes I would also 'crave to be breath alone and rid of matters twist and snap or just to vanish'. Brilliant expression of just disappearing but not completely - my take on this. Loved this Grant!!Comment
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Behold... The Master has spun gold out of ink once again. (Of course, the ink in this case being metaphorical as it is on a computer screen.) You are an alchemist of the highest order.Comment
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Again I find myself an ordinary man in the land of giants. So much eloquence.
As always, rather than being silent I shall express my simple impressions, how you speak to me.
Sometimes the horror, whether at our elbow or distant, is overwhelming. Would indeed be refreshing to blind ourselves, to cease to feel or care. But we don't, we won't, we can't. We are, after all, only human. We are predetermined to care. So on we go, we must.
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I add only simple agreement to the complimentary comments already laid at hand. The power in this forlorn plea is one of ages. You've given it the unique and wonderful Grantian perspective which is a thing of beauty always. I salute Maestro.Comment
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Hello grant, it reads like the equal amongst the unequal, like the curse of a seer, helpless because of the inequalities that surround the quality of the knowing, the odd one out, an enemy of the people, odd, the oddness of the mad man in the sanity of himself. An extremely interesting poem. Way above and way beyond the poet's portfolio. It must be trying on the old mind when composing such poetry, and yet you seem to be able to do it without eating the keyboard, as I surely would if ever attempted the like. A poem forever and for everyone. Most excellent in all. Regards, Tony.Comment
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Hahahahaha, eating the keyboard; I like that, Tony. Your comment here oysters a poem, truly: the oddness of the mad man in the sanity of himself - what a wonderful line,right there! It is odd to labour at verse in this day and age, to be sure; we who post here be oddlings, all. That you find this extremely interesting is about the most gratifying response I could hope for. Thank you.Comment
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Hello grant hayes
my LIKE makes an Eight and I applaud that little holy number of harmony and balance! How perfect for this poem and the poet!!!
icons written in skin
oh my!!!
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Hello, Suz-zen. Eight is a good number, with its companionably paired foursquareness, compass mapped with a mr and mrs at each point of the world's material crux. Be they frogs? Be they serpents? They be Darkness, Multitude, Expanse, and Concealment, and on their burial mound rises the sun.Comment
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