Darkness calls us home
in the theatre-lights of our
exhausted consciences.
We have turned to rattled shells--
torn instuments
who can no longer sound
even with the voices of the weary.
Who shall we presume
to have destroyed in our elation?
These false monks we have seen
sitting in groves
wires snaking from their pockets--
these desperado scientists
of measure and lead,
we have become them.
Those whom we swore
were never ours,
whom we saw as
foreign fields to be tilled
with inkblood--
those who,
in the darkness,
rather than finding
the panes of glass
have cried--
"we did not ask to be made."
5 comments:
As always, amazing.
I have a problem with the first stanza, however. I don't know why, I just found it un-bernardesque - it didn't quite fit in with the rest... It's the word "overexcited", I think, it just didn't fit in.
However, I love when you use the "we" voice for your poems, it's so eery and lonesome in its communal cry, almost prayer-like, all broken up into melancholy fragments of consciousness. I get shivers.
"We did not ask to be made."
That line could stand on its own.
Brilliant.
Changed that "overexercised". It did sound dumb.
I like it.
It's dark.
But it seems to be missing that certain je-ne-sais-quoi that your poetry usually has, drifting off the tongue. I don't know what it is. Maybe the lines.
I'm not sure.
But I do like it. It's different.
'these desperado scientists
of measure and lead,'
Yeesssss. Love that.
Oh my, a lament indeed. I agree with Mike about the last line. I actually like the entire last stanza with that line. But I'd have to agree with Tabia on the overall impression of it...definately missing that spark, but...I don't know. I can't really put my finger on it, so I suppose I shouldn't really be critiquing that part so strongly. But I did like it. Just...like your others better :P
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