Sucking off the memory crust, paperweighting the fluttering will.... great pictures, you are really good at this WB, every time I read your poems all these unlikely pictures pop up.
Three noun clauses, a triad of complementary static images, sans location, unspecified, states of tension, present, past -- and an uncertain, anxious future tentatively stabilized by the ballast of those busted hands, anchoring an insubstantial, thought-befogged world that, drained of actual weight, colour and life, might elsewise slip off to god knows where, god knows when, god knows why.
Thus a moment of transition, no going back, no clear benefit in looking ahead, gripping the rails of the moment midst unsettling doldrums -- "at sea".
All of this picture might seem external, even externalised, projected -- were it not that no one can know the agitation of a a doubtful will from the outside.
Anything that keeps all from drifting away, going smashed, might thus constitute a "charm", not so much imagined as actual, immediate, necessary, and as such, tightly clutched. If only for luck.
But so many lips may have sucked the memory crust off that same miserable sad past-shelf-life doll's head before, there's no telling.
Killer lines. All of 'em. Fine poem, WB.
ReplyDeleteSucking off the memory crust, paperweighting the fluttering will.... great pictures, you are really good at this WB, every time I read your poems all these unlikely pictures pop up.
ReplyDeleteThree noun clauses, a triad of complementary static images, sans location, unspecified, states of tension, present, past -- and an uncertain, anxious future tentatively stabilized by the ballast of those busted hands, anchoring an insubstantial, thought-befogged world that, drained of actual weight, colour and life, might elsewise slip off to god knows where, god knows when, god knows why.
ReplyDeleteThus a moment of transition, no going back, no clear benefit in looking ahead, gripping the rails of the moment midst unsettling doldrums -- "at sea".
All of this picture might seem external, even externalised, projected -- were it not that no one can know the agitation of a a doubtful will from the outside.
Anything that keeps all from drifting away, going smashed, might thus constitute a "charm", not so much imagined as actual, immediate, necessary, and as such, tightly clutched. If only for luck.
But so many lips may have sucked the memory crust off that same miserable sad past-shelf-life doll's head before, there's no telling.
(Here there's a street phrase -- "I feel you".)
To paraphrase and slightly change a famous phrase--"Three times a charm," my good man.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Jonathan, Marie, Tom and Vassilis. Was a little nervous about posting this one for some reason.
ReplyDeleteTom, I think you pretty much catch it. There's only the thinnest hope these "charms" will do the job. There is no telling.
insightful nice poem Duncan...I am trying to understand it and translate it too...:)
ReplyDeleteThank you, Sandra. Lovely to hear from you.
ReplyDeleteyour poetry is lovely Wooden Boy!
Delete