Realisms By Douglas Dunn

Poetry in a flap,Its paper efficiencies Thoth with an accent.Details shrug me off,Rain from a wet coat;I am shoulders.You have the same concern;The real stuff hurts.efforts To write it down confuse,Or soothe too much,having Too many ideas to start with,Too many words.Whittling down An algebra of 'sympathies' Through brilliant sums To a sudden nothing,We find a glimpse of housing estates,A duster on a window Waving to a street Its goodbyes to the spirit Of domestic energies.At the moist limits Of Zero,where worlds turn Vegtable or wiry And politics dissolve,Gunfire is silent,Its echo reached us here,Far down in France,the thud That hits the citizens who die For random's cause--- The cause of being them,Of being there,blown to pieces As they drink their tea. I am against most revolutions,All conformities.You must demur. At least,raise your eyebrows.Nothing helps, Out fatuous surrender To the language deals No impertinence or blow. We puff our alphabets Back to the oratorical soup Of Ireland,Scotland,To a thousand stabs in the back,The inhabitants of opposition.Our cities of shipyards,Belfast,Glasgow,Fervent closures Of protestantism dispensed with---- We never escape them,Returning to stale dreams,Old possibilities,dismissed In the eyes of generators Of what we kicked from our heels,And friends who stayed To admonish our absences.Streets,an altered skyline,The half remembered face Of an early girl-friend We might almost have married Under the trees of the playground--- And the dream comes back,Again and again,far away At the ends of roads,The existential clarity Of love and nothing,the peace Poets in patched trousers deserve.

leighmarie leighmarie
41-45, F
Mar 3, 2010