-the published poet, the unpublished poet, and the kid next door-
I’ll read some George Bilgere poems during the early
evening slow-down, the first stroke of darkness when
interior table lamps are reconsidered.
out there, beyond the South Swansea wilderness, the route 6 traffic
out there, beyond the South Swansea wilderness, the route 6 traffic
is culled by time as workday tensions exhale from their necessities.
tonight seems right for Bilgere. he knows how to stick an ending.
(earlier, I witnessed the kid next door strapped-in with muscular dystrophy
struggling to make it up the ramp to his house, the agonized machinery whining
for the want of its battery's charge, his broken torso slumped head-first,
for the want of its battery's charge, his broken torso slumped head-first,
low and pleading as if confronting a dense atmosphere.)
I left him to his own devices.
I'll start with Bilgere's volume, "The White Museum" and the poem titled: "Trash".
It opens with a quote from Pablo Neruda:
"Each morning I place on my writing table
a carnation and a hammer".
imagine writing such an introduction to the day ahead.
imagine writing such an introduction to the day ahead.
as for me, there are times when I'll question the work in progress,
"sounds like somebody else" but I'll pass through a measure of time
"sounds like somebody else" but I'll pass through a measure of time
and exploration before entering the crowded platform with reasonable assurance.
as for this entry, the lines in parenthesis beginning with: “earlier, I witnessed.."
ending with: “as if confronting a dense atmosphere"— well,
I've assured myself at least for the time being that for the most part, are mine.
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