Sometimes when I read a poem, I know I like it right away--but I'm not exactly sure why I like it. That's how I felt when I read today's poem. Its rambling, stream-of-consciousness tone appeals to me, I know that. Maybe you should just read it and see what you think:
in the ruins
by Mark Conway
we drank in the remains
of ruined buildings
and we sat in a cave or
wrecked houses on farms given back to the bank
listening to men who'd been raised
in ways that were lost
and we strained to make out
the use of their news
they were crazy or passed out
speed notched with a cross
they drank from the flask and the mouth
they came in and shook off the rain
inflamed and dismayed
calm and arcane
the least one seethed chanting whitman for hours
then wept at the dregs of the fire
foam formed at the edge of their lips
we drank and waited for something to drop
you and I looking and sifting
for signs written in wax
we were young we knew how to die
but not how to last
Read the rest here. And let me know what you think. I find it enchanting and a little bit mesmerizing.
See you tomorrow for poem five! And remember, be sure to subscribe so you get all posts delivered straight to you. AND if you haven't told your friends about our National Poetry Month series...there's still time!
No comments:
Post a Comment