Entries such as these have been rare for me since my stroke. Last week, I picked up a volume entitled "Modern American Poetry". I've really dug the poems, but most especially those of Lyn Hejinian, whose stream-of-consciousness poetics struck a chord for me. No, not every one will like this. If stream-of-consciousness really suit your style,well, seek another poet. But if you like Lyn, I hope you'll like this too. Enjoy! (PS - feel free to lend your thoughts in the "comments" section.)
(#1)
The soil did not stand; it blew away. Last night I turned, nuzzled your roughening cheek. The things I knew, I do not know. It is time. I insert the token into the T. Let the game be Monopoly. The music is played upon a viola. There is no sound. The woman from Spain swung her maracas about. Stubby fields bind but do not break. He cast aside the thronE. A poem writ large and confusing. His pubic hair rests between my fingers, gently. We are comfortable, lying near the dune. The Appalachian mountains are high, forbidding. We are alone. The feet of the tiny dogs go clickclackclickclackclickclack. My pocketbook was laying about. A silver earring came off, laying next to me. How many miles is it to Traherne? My knees ache and scar from your mounting of me. The sparrow's wings are so lovely. Sorry, sir, your money has no value here. Swords drawn, we fought the wild fauna. The bartender gave a cup to the tired man. The name others gave me is not the name I gave to myself. The trees, the knotty ones, are set to be cut down. We rub each other, gasping. My head arches back, digging into the old Indian blanket. A ghost comes near to me, smiling. We peer far ahead, seeing a tiny empty church. The rain starts as mist, ends as torrential downpour. His arms touch my shoulderblades. It is love. Or not. Either way, I am sated, sated.
*ezs*
(#1)
The soil did not stand; it blew away. Last night I turned, nuzzled your roughening cheek. The things I knew, I do not know. It is time. I insert the token into the T. Let the game be Monopoly. The music is played upon a viola. There is no sound. The woman from Spain swung her maracas about. Stubby fields bind but do not break. He cast aside the thronE. A poem writ large and confusing. His pubic hair rests between my fingers, gently. We are comfortable, lying near the dune. The Appalachian mountains are high, forbidding. We are alone. The feet of the tiny dogs go clickclackclickclackclickclack. My pocketbook was laying about. A silver earring came off, laying next to me. How many miles is it to Traherne? My knees ache and scar from your mounting of me. The sparrow's wings are so lovely. Sorry, sir, your money has no value here. Swords drawn, we fought the wild fauna. The bartender gave a cup to the tired man. The name others gave me is not the name I gave to myself. The trees, the knotty ones, are set to be cut down. We rub each other, gasping. My head arches back, digging into the old Indian blanket. A ghost comes near to me, smiling. We peer far ahead, seeing a tiny empty church. The rain starts as mist, ends as torrential downpour. His arms touch my shoulderblades. It is love. Or not. Either way, I am sated, sated.
*ezs*
