"In the South" - Clifford Brooks
Cicadas
offer no history, only
a permanent revolution of seasons --
a melody,
offer no history, only
a permanent revolution of seasons --
a melody,
a natural catastrophe.
…
Our loose thoughts combined after I told you
about the blond vagabond playing Vivaldi downtown
with only his toes touching the ground,
the soothing sounds those strings
Our loose thoughts combined after I told you
about the blond vagabond playing Vivaldi downtown
with only his toes touching the ground,
the soothing sounds those strings
spread
were his roots among us
that
challenged reality, in it
he was
the only soul entangled.
His violin was spotless, though he was not --
he was a stalagmite, vapor, the remnants of awful parents,
vacant eyes, gaping mouth.
Unkempt, he was another time-wasted thing, disintegrating
from an inability to remain tangible, shadows crowding 'round,
same as you see on the road home through Yazoo, Waco, and Monroe,
impassable because your headlights always shined
behind … nevertheless - a surreal sight on Hancock, that man
like the dark wood of a dining table, primer still smelling
of orange blossoms wiped up in dusty plumes, letters propped up
His violin was spotless, though he was not --
he was a stalagmite, vapor, the remnants of awful parents,
vacant eyes, gaping mouth.
Unkempt, he was another time-wasted thing, disintegrating
from an inability to remain tangible, shadows crowding 'round,
same as you see on the road home through Yazoo, Waco, and Monroe,
impassable because your headlights always shined
behind … nevertheless - a surreal sight on Hancock, that man
like the dark wood of a dining table, primer still smelling
of orange blossoms wiped up in dusty plumes, letters propped up
against a
vase beneath the bowing heads of crested irises,
nearby is
grandfather's photo in black-and-white,
expensive
parchment for better letters is unused.
Today, for me, a lady is a fading reflection as I look out
Today, for me, a lady is a fading reflection as I look out
from a
sturdy frame; the air is filled with cynicism.
For years
I collected specters in a blue Bible,
and tonight i give them all to Vivaldi’s madman.
Those motels, the lying sleep, this time to mend:
and tonight i give them all to Vivaldi’s madman.
Those motels, the lying sleep, this time to mend:
They are
forgotten secrets between us and lunacy.
They are
no longer yours.
They are
no longer mine.
…
Cicadas
play to help remember, keeping
time the way a metronome does:
Not to pass the hour,
…
Cicadas
play to help remember, keeping
time the way a metronome does:
Not to pass the hour,
but hone its rhythm.
They are blades that slice away
what I don’t want.
They are blades that slice away
what I don’t want.
Clifford Brooks (www.cliffbrooks.com) was
born in Athens, Georgia His second full-length poetry volume, Athena
Departs: Gospel of a Man Apart, as well as a limited-edition poetry
chapbook, Exiles of Eden, were published in 2017. His first
poetry collection, The Draw of Broken Eyes & Whirling Metaphysics, was
re-issued in August 2018. Evergreens,
his second chapbook, will be released by Lucid House Publishing in 2019.
Clifford is the founder of The Southern Collective Experience (www.southerncollectiveexperience.com), a
cooperative of writers, musicians and visual artists, which publishes the
journal of culture The Blue Mountain Review and hosts the NPR
show Dante’s Old South. He is on the faculty of The Company of
Writers, and provides tutorials on poetry through the Noetic teaching
application.
No comments:
Post a Comment