|
A Fragmentation of Verse |
When I think things too long or
too hard, it seems language itself
shatters, for I have no use for pieces
like letters forming puzzles like words--
words, left in cabinets till decay, till
they crumble free from moorings,
letters like crumbs themselves where
there is no translation or decoder
ring for the kind of message
that starts out legible, communicates
key concepts, then deteriorates into
consonants, vowels, and nameless sound--.
or maybe there is (one explanation), but
only one-- for the fragmentation of verse
is a quiet hut in survival's village.
If I do not say the words
I do not have to take them back;
if I do not say the words
you cannot make them real;
if you do not know which words
I mean or meant, what good
would it do to say them (to you)
anyway? And it is effort, or fear of
no reward, or awareness
that all words in a certain moment
may arrive as sharp stakes
for the speaker's tongue
or listener's ear,
flirting with burst drums, or sore
speech, arriving late, or
not at all until the pain grows
so severe the tongue is crippled and
chapped by holes left behind
from earlier stakes,
swells to fill the mouth
that wants to speak,
but the swells keep
th e s e words at bay until there is
nothing but sound,
safe, little milky sounds, calm
sounds uttered, like: s n b
sou tks bea te--
or: et s l ety fjls .m d.
& n ker ty p b all.
to fill the page
--until words can be made again
when fragments pulled together will be
less dangerous
than things one resisted,
perhaps out of kindness to both parties, to
voice, yes, to
(h ; ee kc.
ll e ! w ! & nmn), come right out,
and say.
copyright 2009
Heather
Fowler |
