WHAT HOPE HAVE I WHO CAN’T EVEN COUNT

 

I think this was “found” in last  April’s “Prompt” poems–bits and pieces of poems the Spring St. Poets wrote. If it isn’t, I have no idea where it came from, or what it’s about.

 

Where did I hide when I was ten?
That was the year I stopped feeling solid,
the year I broke things I liked.
I tried to fly away, but could not
with the mass of gravity holding me in.
All that November I sang
like a swamp sparrow.

Must I apologize for my life?
My Ideal Muse expired last year;
my Actual  Muse will never show up.
My favorite sound is the pulse of poets,
though I would not say that in mixed company.
To my favorite god, I offer my favorite globular fruit,
concealed in my favorite hand.

O, favorite hand!
Could you please write this down now, else
the nightmare will continue:  I shall leap around
with the rest of the condemned cattle
until it is finished. The time
will never be more auspicious.

O ye dead poets!  Leave me alone!
I grow old and dare not peel a peach.
Your botched cantatas are stuck in my head forever.
I’d rather sit in my kitchen,
and talk to the microwave.
Damn my grandmother’s premonitions,
her endless Old Sayings!
Damn you all, and your endless noise!

Astonishing, isn’t it?
All this thrumming
has turned my throat to stone.
 

One comment on “WHAT HOPE HAVE I WHO CAN’T EVEN COUNT

  1. Jane Jackson says:

    I can relate to the “dead poets” part as John Donne’s “Batter my heart three personed God” came to me last night in my almost sleep. They sure are tenacious.

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