When you pull the nose, the
Cheeks, the lips ─ the rest comes with.
Perhaps a white sheet, perhaps a
Paragraph. Eight point. Hieroglyph.
A padlock now pried. And peeks
At word peaks. I've tried, I was one
To excavate and sigh on
The vacancy. I have done it, have
Hung my white flag. Fruitless
To 'what if.'
No more. No, I lift it with intention
To lick the last pulp plate dry.
Mouth black, eyes swung back
In absorptive pollination.
It is a commitment, a vow
To bow before a seeming stack of
Syllable trash. And a contract
Sealed with neurons to last, to last.
A laugh. I needn't be so shy. It
Parts so willingly.
You find it dull. You find it’s skeletal
Sentences dripped with drool.
But leafing turns to biting. Turns to
Gnawing, rolling rapports round your
Jaw. A ravenous clang of page after
Page between fang. How wondrous ─
The simplicity in adopting the maw.
The blank screen graced with place
And face, all framed
In hazy milk.
It is the transmutation of it, from
Soporific to sermon. A foot of dust
On the bible ─ these ones bear
A far more spiritual shock. You view it as
Chore, until your spine snaps at the
Spin of it. Until you swallow it. The angle
Alters, trot to rocketing, and the
Climax is your climax.
Huffing, wet, wallowing in the mess.
Commas and capitals. Lap laden
With the win of it.
It is in every tome, a seed of
Sinew. It is a mirror.
Its peels stink of your fingers
In the end. And your veins have
More than ventured, curling about
That of a vapor. You tremble, you
Can barely sit. Trauma-dropped,
It is cooing at your feet. Refusing
To blend. You think a
Book is bad until you marry it.
Until you've carried it over the
Threshold. Wood. Or plastic.
Or pile. A heap, a heap, be it
Costly or cheap. Until you bury
It. Not at the midriff, but at the zenith,
Where it banters on and on
By telegraph. You welcome it
In that anechoic grotto. It is so
Bad, until, sub-hair aware, you
Triumph in the fail to parry it.
© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH
some nice internal rhyme and near rhyme, some subtle allit and repetition that pulls this one...i feel a rhythm in reading it...i wonder if it is the same you have in reading it because i am not sure of your stresses...and i am a lover of books...and i have had a few that would fall into this...i think the last stanza is my fav.
ReplyDeleteI guess I'm also unsure as to what particular beat was intended. I do not mean to sound as though I write without a plan in mind. I know this prompt was meant to display our personal beat. I chose this one because it so honestly mirrors my actual voice. The slowness and sudden acceleration, the back to back, almost drum-machine-like quality at times. It is jagged, it is not uniform. I do not speak in a sing-song way, and it appears as though I also do not write in that manner. I'm glad that you understood and can relate to the theme.
DeleteA fine poem..you didn't mark the stresses probably because you thought they were evident as they were to me. Primarily a series of iambs and anapests.. a few lines starting with trochee's, a few jambed stresses ..healthy meter..a little mix, a little change of pace, a little bit of rock & roll thrown in to make it modern but the language needs it..lofty, intelligent, it scales rather than sings, it explores rather than beats, it ranges through magnificent tomes, towers, and architectures of the mind.
ReplyDeleteFor me..this reminds me of the monumental task of writing anything all my life..daunted yes with the different fonts..just to get more than two lines together...that say something new..and not technical..like science abstract for peer review!
ReplyDeleteOh creativity..Oh creativity! an ode! is their code to creativity..i think not in creative terms..
The art flows..
the faucet IS locked for decades...
and now the spicket explodes..
does it make sense i know not..
but i care no longer
to know...
but anyway thinks for the inspiration...
as far as i feel..
that's how creativity truly flows..
from one faucet to another..
drip
drip
the poetry grows!
What a clear and strong beat.. No mead to mark it.. Just flows - ironic the consistency when you say the syllables are not counted.. Sometimes it come natural.. Sometimes it's just natural.
ReplyDeleteCrisp, biting, like a swim in the Arctic, with excellent diction. Commas and capitals brilliant!
ReplyDeleteThank you so much! I do try to craft poems and word placement to give a nipping effect to the eye, a whip-crack at times.
Deletethis one is a thought provoking poem..."It is in every tome, a seed of / Sinew. It is a mirror"...i love this line...
ReplyDeleteThank you! That line is one that was detrimental to the piece in my eyes. It is the thematic crux.
Delete