What a beautiful, powerful poem. It turned my eyes toward the forgotten, neglected, invisible. I wonder, does my reading your poem make the forgotten son less forgotten? If none of the weeping, forgotten sons know that I am reading your poem, are they any less invisible when I read your poem?
I am reminded (often) of your poem of the dog, almost run over by a driver. It ends:
These days I have very little hope in the concrete sense of the word. That's precisely why I know that the only thing that can save us is art. Have you ever read accounts of prisoners in death camps listening to concerts by musician prisoners? They stood in frigid cold and clung to the music with every ounce of strength. The universe is a pretty cold unfeeling place. The hope is not that the camps will vanish and we will all be set free, romping around and playing harps. The hope just is... because in spite of everything, and in the face of everything, human beings invent poems and music and pictures and stories. Such hopeful arrogance can make the universe sing.
Sharp and brutal images... from the silence of the sleepy cocoon to the snarl and sizzle of the wasps, a very urban terror uncovered by gentrification. Perfectly titled creeping horror, a different kind of ghost. I can't stop thinking of the man and his son.
I just reread VICTORY, one of my favorites, both for the theme and imagery. Besides the only sport I can bear watching Is basketball... "jumps made of paranoia and rue".
What a beautiful, powerful poem. It turned my eyes toward the forgotten, neglected, invisible. I wonder, does my reading your poem make the forgotten son less forgotten? If none of the weeping, forgotten sons know that I am reading your poem, are they any less invisible when I read your poem?
I am reminded (often) of your poem of the dog, almost run over by a driver. It ends:
Why do poets think
They can change the world?
The only life I can save
Is my own.
Not true, not true.
You have more hope than I do. I’m jealous of that.
These days I have very little hope in the concrete sense of the word. That's precisely why I know that the only thing that can save us is art. Have you ever read accounts of prisoners in death camps listening to concerts by musician prisoners? They stood in frigid cold and clung to the music with every ounce of strength. The universe is a pretty cold unfeeling place. The hope is not that the camps will vanish and we will all be set free, romping around and playing harps. The hope just is... because in spite of everything, and in the face of everything, human beings invent poems and music and pictures and stories. Such hopeful arrogance can make the universe sing.
I agree with all of that!
Sharp and brutal images... from the silence of the sleepy cocoon to the snarl and sizzle of the wasps, a very urban terror uncovered by gentrification. Perfectly titled creeping horror, a different kind of ghost. I can't stop thinking of the man and his son.
Thank you. It’s been over 20 years. The neighborhood is very different now.
I just reread VICTORY, one of my favorites, both for the theme and imagery. Besides the only sport I can bear watching Is basketball... "jumps made of paranoia and rue".
I hadn’t thought about that poem in a while!
Poignant. Sad.
Thank you!
WOW! I have shivers on this one.
Thank you!