Manual Wanderings of a Convoluted Mind: A Poetic Journey

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This vision of spiritual challenge is sometimes effected by repetition within and among poems, but also through grammatically irregular binding of pronoun cases and points of view. Strategies like this also operate to maintain links among the poems, layering and compacting readings rather than propelling narrative. Where did you read that? Many poems similarly tie inconsequential conversations to philosophical conclusions in gestures that expose the fleeting, roundabout way one person comes to know another intimately.

Precise behavioral details, like sneering at flowery thinking and a love of food, loop through the ontological abstractions of this formally irregular series to articulate and to ask what mortality means. Bending the contours of the epic likewise questions many of its givens.

The collective voice of these poems shows that Elle is and will remain a path the speaker follows. I must seek a solution to the geometry that my future has unverged with yours. I am not dead but silenced. Convergences of forgiveness and love form not only in the material present of the relationship but also extend unpredictably into a chronic future of memory and contemplation. In some poems, Elle is addressed as though her death is imminent; elsewhere, she is recalled as a character summary, as if dead a long time and remembered without pain; in others, she is part of a long-term but urgent plan to figure out a complex philosophical problem.

Here, they seem to stress the frustrations posed by inconsistencies of emotional and chronological proximity and the attempt to create a dimension in writing that permits their peaceful, unequal cohabitation. These paradigm-twisting notions of mortality flit along linguistic and geometric borders to disrupt spatial-temporal relations defining subjectivity, especially the figures of interiority and expression, depth and surface most familiar in idiomatic use.

She will message me, I think. But I cannot harbor. She is inside herself, sliced from unreal, real , as no from not. Here, again, negation acts not to nullify but to revise ideas of death. Attention to the intricacies and irregularities of words, as Hogue explains in the Notes, drove the pace of the project. These clusters of keyboard intrusions roughly flaunt the powers of accident like typos and remembrance rather than smooth them out into allusions.

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Yet poetry has been pretty youth obsessed so far. We need more poems that help us understand and endure our inevitable longevity. That longevity has also meant that we are increasingly linked to previous centuries through old people who act as 'wormholes' because while we are sitting next to them right now, they once sat next to Salvador Dali or Rasputin or Queen Victoria. Please give your poem a title.

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In the savoury air of the curry joint we sit and eat - two women divorced from husbands and lost lives. It might be the vindaloo, or the wine, but I am snot-nose crying, in full view of those who wish to enjoy their food. Monkey Puzzle Pam Newham While your fellows press heir small faces with all-too-human eyes against the glass you hang back, unsure, like a teenager in a dress her mother bought.

Then unable to resist you swing onto the deck and that's when I see you are pink. Your fur is bright pink! And I understand why you are shy. I find, these days, there seem to be few things that astound and amaze. But you did it high in a bushveld tree the absurdity one small pink monkey. Dearest Diary, I was accompanied by a bum today. There I said the word: forgive me. It's owner intent on her cellphone, unaware of my fond interest,. Just busy being twentysomething, occupied with more important things than an ageing bachelor with Spring on his heart. A new spring in my step, I proceeded to catch the bus, observed and appreciated and worshipped and dreamed and sorrowed and ended up getting off at a later stop, for the trudge back to the Woollies on the corner.

Seventy musicians required to portray Manfred lost in the Alps: two harpists to warble a quick melody; a triangle tinger and cymbal basher; a fit timpanist to run down the corridor and chime three distant bells; a flurry of bow sweepers and pluckers; a blast of trumpeters and other blowers; all the wide legged cellists; oh — and the famous organist who understands the growling temple of pipes.

Poetry Project

The birds trapped high in the city hall beat at the clerestory windows the outside cleaners stop their wiping and scraping transfixed by the onslaught of sound. I planned to develop it Drawing attention to the accumulations of ice falling In slow chunks Like the disappearing accretions of memory. My Grandmama, clad in a muff, Was put into an awful huff When, hurrying down a Mayfair Street, To fast escape the snow and sleet, A speeding carriage, rushing past Sent her tumbling, quite aghast, Into the icy dirty mess.

It spoiled her pretty coat and dress. She peered inside the steamy glass As the vision hurried past And who do you think she recognised? Queen Victoria snug inside. I used your loose-hanging body as an excuse for the gloomy cigarettes drooping from the corner of my downturned mouth. Like you and that limp wrist you carried in your back pocket for special occasions, such as when you saw that cute twink across the bar, I pulled a soft pack out softly to show how invested I was, in your death.

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Your afro — black and lush excused the exhaled rush of white smoke drifting upwards to what was once heaven. You cannot rise on new-age crap like peace and nothingness. You were a smoker too and I chose to remember you by killing myself purposefully as you had done. Though not as brave, I spread it out; slow collapse stick by stick not instant snap. Suppose that there is a place in the mind where a small door takes shape as one grows older, as the days shorten and memory fades,.

Last Sunday, leaning back into the hardness of a wooden pew in an old church, I looked up at its dark, silent rafters and listened to the whispering sound of the arriving congregation. My mother is very good at keeping records, she understands the need for order and accrual in the processes of memory-making. My great ouma was the first to go sliding off the edge of the couch, the edge of the photo, the edge of life at the age of 93, I was 5. Now my ouma is nearly 92 like Mandela, she likes to remind us, who is also sliding slowly away.

And as I hurry from the siekeboeg back to the flat to pack up the last of the Noritake tea-set only ever used on special occasions but ouma will not be hosting a party for eight again the tannie on the path in front of me moving slowly to avoid a fall turns to me with a smile, her face creased and folded like a precious photo of a lover kept in a breast-pocket and says:.

I smile and say something meaningless hurrying on past her up the path, across the road, around the bend, hurry hurry ever onward towards the edge of memory. Since my crawling days, I have seen the sun travel through the deserts, tropics, and snows, but has never grown old. Today, as I sat by my aged bed, in anticipation for my creator to grant permission for my mourning after the morning, I saw her rising with unfading dimples still showering seamless smiles on her face.

She waved pass me to rest yet again after reminding me of the wrinkles on my face which kept calling me to my grave. Metaphors fall from cheek to paper. Feelings, Beating Breaking. Aching between pages, fragments and cold finger tips. Palms touching. She has never known words to be so futile, Never tried to move a mountain by blowing as she would the flame on a candle. By breathing. Weaving Perfect simple words. That hang loosely around him, never able to wrap him, get close to feel him. Never feeling How she feels. How she wants to feel.

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Never has a page so full of words seemed so empty. Life must wink at itself in private self-defiance. Life must channel-hop in exiled self-reliance. Come to my trembling hands, my dearest sweet. Come to my reaching lips, the time is young and neat. Kiss me, take me, rape me with the beast in you; fold me, hold me, mould me to your burning bosom, Oh my darling Matryoshka!

That ever this should be! Comfort, solace, balm from harm or an Olympic sport. Come to my reaching lips, the time is young and neat Kiss me, take me, rape me with the beast in you; fold me, hold me, mould me to your burning bosom, Oh my darling Matryoshka! Life must outplay the greater foe in gutteral depravity Life must shrink in shame from the mirrored cavity. But first, some comments on what I did like.

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