To a Young Poet Who Asked
Look, it’s women and men,
men and men, women and women,
it’s not hyacinths and stones,
not the vista at the end of a cliff
where no one lives.
You have to pay attention
to how night falls in a house
where anything can happen, and has.
You have to sense the drift of history
behind every wish to explain.
The era of darkness-as-illumination
has passed. The disembodied utterance
has been found empty at the core.
How to say what we can’t say
across a table, or bed?
How to illusion speech
into something true?
Forget the crocuses coming up,
you have to find a way
to bring the strangers in
from their public outposts, you
have to reveal our common strangeness
as if it were interplanetary news.
The spectacular ocean undulating
without us—let it crash and recede.
Those flamingos standing like symbols
on their solitary, pink legs—
let them glamor postcards, not poems.
But understand you’re worth nothing,
you’re anybody, may every
good word turn against you,
unless you violate this poem.
Poetry
Did you enjoy the the artible “Poetry” from Stephen Elliot Dunn on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply