"fr mchll"
frightened
yet identifying the
indiscernible she said,
"love will save us."
i tell her that my hands are
merely instruments of the
weather.
her painted nails wipe away tears
though i'm sure
her fingers were crossed.
it seems my ampersands, commas, and reflective
metaphors remain
tired attempts at explaining
the way a bird sings.
For what's essentially only three sentences, you package in plenty of philosophy and humanity. Obviously, this works as both a comment on love as well as a comment on the craft of poetry. As I sit with this poem I can't find the place, but I can sense the heart. These are characters that are living everywhere at once. They are not the unsure, self-conscious characters of maybe your older poems, but these are self-aware. They are neither defeated nor exalted by their own identity. They are beautifully trying to find salvation within their limitations.
ReplyDeleteI have some struggle with the "instruments of the weather" line. I can't figure it. I get this odd juxtaposition of the ethereal idea of "weather" and the very physical fingers. I get the idea that the body is whimsical, but I'm not sure if I should get more than that.
Clearly, the ending rocks. It says to me that any poetry will never be as beautiful as nature, just because poetry can't overcome the reality that it's man made. But, by the same token, love can't be as naturally beautiful for the same reason.
Hmm. It's a good poem. It's fun to talk about
I guess these are four sentences. I love the fingers crossed thing. So honest. It juxtaposes with the tears on the face. It kills. I'm almost thinking it might be better than the last night. Not sure. Probably doesn't matter.
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