Association & Noise

the temptation is to start with the four letter word I’ve talked about once with students

after finding the sounds repeated in a particular poem brought violence at the tooth & lip.

sometimes I stutter, not only speaking or typing but thinking, say the same same-thing over

not knowing if either utterance was what I meant, finding that it wasn’t what I meant at all.

the danger of such talk is that its cheapness has a cost over time, if it wasn’t that the askers changed

so often, they might see that what they mistake for knowledge might just be fear or worse, futility.

the stand up knows how a nearly empty room might either be a place to try the bit for diagnostics or,

more certain that it kills, might save it for the packed house lined with listeners thirsty for the kick.

more often, lately, I’m dying up here & audiences dwindle down to something too precious for dregs,

I can’t believe in superaddressees when even the close know the lines, long & short, at best are foppery.

then, for that small cohort that care, let some last lines dangle in case they stay away a while:

when I say bird, by now, you know what lost soul I seek that never read a word of any of this.

when syllables slide along a line & count to three or four or five you know that it’s the same as breathing, & when the long vowel  hides between the short it’s just the need for singing.

I’m through with making noises now & all associations fail to conjure more than ordinary doodlings.

let this be a lesson for the lazy lovers of the word: there’s more to making art than simply wanting.

___________

[Note: "— but poetry is talk altered into art, speech slowed down and attended to, words arranged for the reader who contracts to read them for their whole heft of association and noise. Donald Hall, "The Unsayable Said"]

Acorn, Axe

                          

Donald Hall, "The Flies" Old and New Poems

 1.

born young & growing,

slowly, aspiration wasn’t

something born into, sibling

rivalry fizzled at five & a half

years removed. I knew & took

what was entitled: expecting

a little shame for all the spoils.

youth offered several smiles

for every shed tear: sensitivity

was strong suit & weakness all

at once: there was no crying

at the breaking of a bone:

a tender heart shows no scars,

but there was something obvious

about the blue eyed stare &

Donald Hall, "The Bone Ring" Here at Eagle Pond

look away that made bluffing

too hard a sport for such a boy.

all of this is apropos of poems

that lie their way into being,

saying: only a minute, start here 

& end up there, once more with…

only to find the end of the page

is just more blankness—

unfilled with dashes,

dash off another one,

dash off little boy, little

boy, where are you?

2.

here, at the middle of my

three score & ten, there is

little sign of sure fame, no

fortune, no guarantee of

longevity. I chore through

what should be work &

tap out would-be poems,

willy-nilly, hand to mouth,

for fun & for spite.

there are enough

what-might-have-beens

to populate a thousand

self-portraits, a thousand

noisy poems balanced

& unbalanced between ephemeral

emotion & the gravity of real things.

but it is those real things that

make this making so appealing,

as they speak to you from

somewhere unknowable,

because unknown, these poems

do not attempt to say the unsayable,

that being above my poetic pay-grade,

but they do speak to me, as today:

a stand of oaks, in winter, made full

on the south side of town,

after fifty cold, tired miles,

a head of foggy hair, ridged in ice,

or, rather, what glowed like ice,

saying: there is more to this than

any season shows, but the heft of each

can only be collected one at a time,

like poems one by one by one by one.

these ghosts that populate a town

that comes before the town that grows

& grows speak to me because the

who I am now was there to notice them,

the years & days that led this man

to that point through ignorance to doubt

& between the heaves of ambition & delusion

have made me desire the end of desire more & more.

what is it about contentment that is willing to wait & wait?

3.

there is surely a day to come in which

the ghosts that speak will beckon more than poems,

bones that have already begun to ache

will creak like floorboards with heavy feet,

suggesting the steady sound of the slow axe.

what hope knows is that there is a tipping point

for time, this speeding cannot hold forever,

though I know my eventual slow coincides

with my sons’ accelerations, but I am far beyond

the need for the neatness of a single universe

or a unified theory of anything, let alone for dying.

this should not be the last word on the movement

from childish happiness to the foolish skepticism

of adulthood on the way to some small enlightenment:

may that road be tree-lined & full of prophesying ghosts,

may we gather acorns knowing all the while the swing of the axe.

[This is not quite ready yet, but I decided to put this draft out there. Not sure if or when I will revise. I suggest to those interested to look up the poet Donals Hall's prose works such as Eagle Pond. Reading (listening to) him helped this poem happen.]