Saturday, February 18, 2012

The grammar turned and attacked me.

The wild North West. Somewhere between Elizabeth Town and Deloraine. February 2012.

Grammar has a way of attacking one...

A Valediction Forbidding Mourning, Adrienne Rich

My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.
The grammar turned and attacked me.
Themes, written under duress.
Emptiness of the notations.

They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.

I want you to see this before I leave:
the experience of repetition as death
the failure of criticism to locate the pain
the poster in the bus that said:
my bleeding is under control

A red plant in a cemetary of plastic wreaths.

A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.
These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.
When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
I could say: those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.

To do something very common, in my own way.

1 comment:

Roddy said...

You are fortunate it was the Grammar and not the Grampa.