Post by LeoVictorBriones (poetremains) on Apr 3, 2009 11:25:07 GMT -5
(I wanted to make this piece less obvious to add mystery to the poem. I also think getting into a poem in the midst of is a good technique.
Letter of resignation
this is the latest evidence of a crumbling nation,
of the worn leather and cinderblocks of the world’s poor,
of the slumdogs of Mumbai who sell
loaves of nan bread for pennies on the rupee,
of the club-footed descendent of the Kumeyaay Indians,
who hobbles for pennies and pesos
along the Otay Mesa bridge
tells the generous travelers of this borderland,
“Perdon, but I am hungry.”
And there is me—
on a distant hill,
finding poetry in grass that glows green
in dew and lupine—opalescent and purple.
I leave dried fruit and nuts next to a monkey flower,
an offering to this shrine of orange blossoms
bursting on the side of mountains, beneath trees.
Perhaps this is the last poem I will ever write,
ever say, ever read, ever dream—
for my poem will not, because it cannot
chant like faceless monks in benediction to the poor,
confess to bellies swollen like bubbling lava,
narrate the crevices of their cracked feet and chapped lips,
rhyme the purgatory of their daily breaths with their sleepless nights.
(1st draft)
I will never write poetry again,
never say it, never read it, never dream it,
never even tuck it in the corner
in a conclave of dust.
Maybe it’s because poems have nothing to do
with the latest evidence of a crumbling nation,
with the worn leather and cinderblock of the world’s poor,
with the slumdogs in Mumbai who sell loaves of nan bread
for pennies on the rupee or the club footed
descendent of the Kumeyaay Indians, who hobbles
for pennies and pesos along the Otay Mesa bridge
and politely tells generous travels of this border land,
“Perdon, pero tengo hambre”.
And there is me—
far away on a distant hill,
finding poetry in grass that glows green
in water dew and lupine— luminescent and purple.
I leave dried fruit and nuts next to a monkey flower,
a small offering to this shrine of orange blossoms
growing on the side of mountains and beneath trees.
And that is the last poem I will ever write,
ever say, ever read, ever dream—
for my poem will not, because it cannot
chant like faceless monks in benediction to the poor,
confess to their swollen lava domed bellies,
narrate the crevices of their cracked feet and chapped lips,
rhyme the purgatory of their daily breaths with their sleepless nights
and not contain a single image that resembles anything like poetry.
Letter of resignation
this is the latest evidence of a crumbling nation,
of the worn leather and cinderblocks of the world’s poor,
of the slumdogs of Mumbai who sell
loaves of nan bread for pennies on the rupee,
of the club-footed descendent of the Kumeyaay Indians,
who hobbles for pennies and pesos
along the Otay Mesa bridge
tells the generous travelers of this borderland,
“Perdon, but I am hungry.”
And there is me—
on a distant hill,
finding poetry in grass that glows green
in dew and lupine—opalescent and purple.
I leave dried fruit and nuts next to a monkey flower,
an offering to this shrine of orange blossoms
bursting on the side of mountains, beneath trees.
Perhaps this is the last poem I will ever write,
ever say, ever read, ever dream—
for my poem will not, because it cannot
chant like faceless monks in benediction to the poor,
confess to bellies swollen like bubbling lava,
narrate the crevices of their cracked feet and chapped lips,
rhyme the purgatory of their daily breaths with their sleepless nights.
(1st draft)
I will never write poetry again,
never say it, never read it, never dream it,
never even tuck it in the corner
in a conclave of dust.
Maybe it’s because poems have nothing to do
with the latest evidence of a crumbling nation,
with the worn leather and cinderblock of the world’s poor,
with the slumdogs in Mumbai who sell loaves of nan bread
for pennies on the rupee or the club footed
descendent of the Kumeyaay Indians, who hobbles
for pennies and pesos along the Otay Mesa bridge
and politely tells generous travels of this border land,
“Perdon, pero tengo hambre”.
And there is me—
far away on a distant hill,
finding poetry in grass that glows green
in water dew and lupine— luminescent and purple.
I leave dried fruit and nuts next to a monkey flower,
a small offering to this shrine of orange blossoms
growing on the side of mountains and beneath trees.
And that is the last poem I will ever write,
ever say, ever read, ever dream—
for my poem will not, because it cannot
chant like faceless monks in benediction to the poor,
confess to their swollen lava domed bellies,
narrate the crevices of their cracked feet and chapped lips,
rhyme the purgatory of their daily breaths with their sleepless nights
and not contain a single image that resembles anything like poetry.
