By estory
I seem to have spent most of my life
Writing poems that nobody else wants to read,
Poems that end up as crumpled pieces of paper
On dusty desk tops in spare rooms of apartments
That nobody can see from the street.
Outside, the people that I write about,
The people I have always wanted to meet,
Walk, matter of fact, to the train stations
And the bus stops, the newsstands and the coffee shops,
The offices of skyscrapers, restaurants, movie theatres,
Parks where lovers steal kisses on the benches.
I, who never seem quite able to shake someone's hand,
To say something remarkable out loud,
Imagine the things they say to each other
And write them all down on little pieces of paper,
In all the myriad, brilliant colors of words,
Printed out in clear, bold print,
In the eloquent language of poets,
And paper the window with them,
One beside the other
Until the scenes in the panes of glass are gone
And the people in the outside world
Disappear.
Of course, nobody down there notices.
They don't see any of my silent messages.
The doorbell downstairs does not ring.
The mailbox is empty of letters.
In the dark, I turn on a light.
The light lights up my desk,
And all the blank, white pieces of paper
Yet to be composed into forgotten poems.
| Author Notes | This is a poem about the distance between writer and subject, between writer and reader, between imagination and reality. Writers are observers of life; instead of holding a conversation, they listen to the conversation at the next table, sizing up the characters, imagining the plots, the theme, the climax of the story. But somehow, they often seem to miss being in the story themselves. I have to think of the ultimate romantics, John Keats and Fanny Braun, who loved each other in their poetry, but never consummated their relationship. And yet, the beautiful sonnet he wrote for her, Bright Star, would live on for eternity as one of the greatest romantic sonnets ever written, capturing for all time, the essence of romantic love. estory |
By estory
Cold
Colder
Colder than snow
The faces in the crowd
In the snow
White stillness, stare
Without speaking about
What just happened
Until
They can no longer move
Out of the cold
On the street
Where everyone is standing
In the snow, watching
The people
Walking away
Without saying anything
| Author Notes | This is a poem about social silence, the difficulties we have in intervening in crowds when something terrible happens to an individual. we often just seem to stand there looking at each other, frozen, or else we walk away, or we don't say anything. we blend into the white. |
By estory
Plain paper wrappings
of mornings in the suburbs
Where we have lived our lives out
Like incandescent light bulbs
Hanging in the lighting fixtures
Plain wallpaper
Painting the walls
In the rooms of our apartments
Where we sit and wait
The empty houses
The empty houses on the blocks
The empty houses on the blocks of streets
The backyards behind the empty houses
Conversations
Recorded on the answering machines
In the empty houses,
Television melodramas
Raising the roofs
Of the empty houses
Beneath the empty skies
Lit by street lights
The empty churches
On the street corners
Casting their pointed shadows
Across the sidewalks
And the streets leading to the shopping centers
The advertisements In the newspapers
That advertise the shopping centers,
The commercials on the radios
We listen to in the cars
We ride in
On our way to the shopping centers,
The plain paper wrappings
Of the fast food we eat
When we get there,
The empty coffee cups we throw into the waste baskets
In the parking lots in the shopping centers in
The commercially zoned real estate
In the middle of nowhere
| Author Notes | This is a free verse piece about the hollowness of consumerism, and the artificial trappings of the mechanized computerized life we lead now, in which the things that once meant something to us no longer seem to hold meaning, and are in fact mere shells of images, shadows on the streets. Plain paper wrappings discarded in a waste basket in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere estory |
By estory
It's not the light,
It's the light reflected in the windows
Of the skyscrapers
It's not the crowds,
It's the face in the people rushing passed you
On Fifth Avenue,
With all their shopping bags
In this city that never sleeps,
There is always somebody walking around,
Handing out leaflets to a protest rally in Union Square
Or predicting the end of the world,
Or just looking into the store windows
While the Empire State Building
And the George Washington Bridge
And the neon billboards of Time Square
Rise into the air above our heads
Like moons that never set
In this city where the Broadway theater patrons
Walk passed the bums sleeping in the doorways
Of the apartment buildings of the rich and famous
And the horse drawn carriages you see going around Central Park
Seem like ghosts of the nineteenth century
And the gargoyles staring down at you
From the parapets of the old town houses
Never speak of the things they've witnessed
From the observation deck of the World Trade Center
You can almost see the whole world,
The Moroccan restaurants and the French restaurants,
Little Italy and Chinatown and the United Nations,
The bars of Chelsea and Soho,
That bull outside of the stock exchange on Wall Street
Where the traders in their offices
Above the commuters
Buy and sell the companies we work for
And the homeless people ride the subway cars
Around and around the subway tunnels
While the lights of the Brooklyn bridge
Glitter in the East River
For the lovers on the promenade
Across Manhattan, across Brooklyn and Queens,
Staten Island and the Bronx,
People in all kinds of apartments
Tune in to all kinds of music,
Hip-hop and jazz, Fusion, Rock and Roll,
Classical music,
The news, the weather, public announcements,
Baseball games
And even though the World Series
Is something most of the world could care less about,
The ticker tape parades
Still make it seem like the center of the world.
| Author Notes | In this poem, I wanted to create a sense of New York City, the diversity of it, the energy, the light and the shadows, the constant movement, the hopes and dreams, the success and failures in it. In many ways, New York is a microcosm of the world, of all our situations, all our struggles, all our contrasts and similarities. I wanted to capture something of the beauty, and the grit, the richness, and the poverty, of my home town, the city New Yorkers call the Only City, the one place where the whole world seems to come together in a single point. estory |
By estory
News
In the newspapers,
The news reports of the news reporters,
The faces of the newscasters
Reading the news, and the investigators
On location, live, reporting the news,
The murders, riots, scandals, thefts
"A five year child was shot in a drive by
While the governor is being investigated for
The lawsuit filed on behalf of
Four runs in five innings
During the heat wave, zero precipitation"
The footsteps of the news reporters
Following us, asking us to comment,
Taking pictures
The pictures on the covers of the newspapers,
The magazines, the tabloids, the blogs
Donald Trump, Kate Middleton, Snoop Dog,
Lebron James, Deng Xia Ping, Derek Jeter,
The victims of the London terrorist attack,
An in depth analysis of the mortgage crisis,
A discussion of climate change,
The declarations of marshal law,
An interview with the heads of state,
The editorials of the editors
The Dow Jones Industrial Average reached a new high
As Ford announces the shuttering of another plant
And the unemployment rate remains
While several companies announced new rounds of automation
Without any apparent motive
The state apparatus
Conduct its spying
At length, in secret,
Without warrant,
Concluding that the steps were necessary
The global war
Defined by politicians
And the motives of the board members
Of corrupt, insensitive corporations
And their corrupt, chief executive officers
The conclusions of the experts
Reports of psychotic individuals
With semi-automatic weapons
Shooting people at random
For no apparent reason
Again
The galloping of horses,
The footsteps of the news reporters
The discoveries of super infections
Spreading exponentially
And the release of convicts
Who overturned their convictions
The interrelated crisis of global markets,
Strikes, protests, famine, fear
The footsteps of giants
Whom we have never seen before,
The wheel out of our hands
As we watch the planes taking off
From the airports of foreign lands
| Author Notes | This is an apocalyptic poem, I thought it kind of appropriate with everything scary going on in the world today. I wanted to capture the helplessness of being in the middle of it, of reading the news, or watching the news, without being able to do anything about it. In a sense, we are all victims in the news. And news is another one of those things we have to deal with every day, like it or not. The style of the poem is free verse, with elements of repetitions, minimalism, worked into it to create the music in the language. I wanted to create, in the disparate imagery, a sense of switching through television channels, getting snippets of images that add up to a sense of a whole. estory |
By estory
Bridges connecting us
And bridges that take us away from each other
The water under the bridges,
The toll booths and the traffic on the bridges we drive
Bridges connecting the shores of the borders of cities
Into the countries and the continents to which they belong,
The bridges reaching out to connect the networks of highways
and take them along with all of their traffic
Up and over the expanses of chasms
Bridges to nowhere
Reaching and reaching
Across the skies,
Suspended in mid air
In the early morning light,
When the lights on the suspension cables are a constellation
And in the evening,
When the suspension cables seem to defy gravity
We drive up and over the bridges
And off the ramps
Going from one neighborhood to another neighborhood
On the other side of the bridge altogether
Bridges of possibilities,
And bridges that solve problems,
The bridging of differences
And the unabridged dictionaries
And the bridge builders,
Silently watching us crossing their bridges
| Author Notes | This is another poem in a series of poems done in a free verse prose poetry style, in which the music and meaning of the poem revolve around one key word, in this case, 'Bridge'. That word 'bridge' takes us from one place to another place, across all kinds of boundaries and obstacles, connecting us and solving problems, and taking us away from each other. And we can't forget the bridge builders, the ideas in the first place. |
By estory
In the shadows,
There is always someone watching us,
There is always a shadow following us
The shadows creeping slowly over the walls
Covered with the shadows of people waiting
In the shadows of the skyscrapers
Overshadowing the commuters
The shadows cast by the figures of statues
Standing still in the shadows of the past
Shadowing us,
The shades of things to come
The footsteps of the shadows following us
Down the streets, under the shadows of the elevated trains,
Underneath the shadows of the airplanes
Dark shadows, night shades,
Blinds, shadow boxes, sillouettes,
Eye shadow, lampshades, solar eclipses
The lengthening shadows
in the darkness of the temples,
The shadows of the gods
| Author Notes | This is another poem, a bit minimalist in the interpretation of free verse, that uses forms of the word 'shadow', and various images associated with it, to create the color and music of language. It's a moody poem, a dark poem of those moments when we feel dogged by unresolved issues, past events. We have all felt those shadows following us, at one time or another. estory |
By estory
I have been on this side,
And on that side,
I have seen the smooth sides of walls
And the hard sides of fences
And the sides of boxes;
I have seen sides drawn up into lines
By the people who choose sides,
Black and white pieces
Facing each other
Across the board
On the field of battle
Where there are no winners and losers.
Whose side are you going to be on
When the sides get chosen up?
I am here, and you seem to be there,
Separated by all the distance
The game dictates
In the struggle for an outcome;
Whose side will come out on top?
Something to be considered
As we make our moves
From one side to the other
Across the board
As the pieces, the parts of sides
In the irreconcilable nature of games.
These are the distances and the distinctions
And the definitions of sides,
The distinct sense of separation,
Of being in between the lines of maps
Cutting across all hope
Until the lines of the sides
Stretch and
Break
| Author Notes | This is another free verse piece, with elements of minimalist repetitions, built around the word 'sides'. this is a poem that takes us from walls and boxes and fences to open spaces, from a competitive nature to the breaking of competition, as the lines of the sides stretch and break apart. estory |
By estory
The lovers of music,
The lovers of the music of love songs
Playing over and over
On the radios
The lovers of poetry
Reciting their love poems
In front of their mirrors
The lovers of art in love
With the nudes in the paintings
Hanging in the boudoirs of the palaces in Paris,
The figures in the statues
Contorted into all those shapes
The lovers of love,
The arts of love,
The women and the men
In love with the shapes in their hands
And the flavors in their mouths,
Ginger and chocolate and vanilla flavors
Rolling off the tongue
In curliques
The lovers of servants,
The servants who go down on their hands and knees
And give up their souls,
Every inch of their bodies
And the lovers of taskmasters,
Those stern taskmasters
Who bind up love
In the darkness,
And teach it new tricks
The lovers behind closed doors, sitting alone in their rooms,
Loving themselves as nobody ever loved them before
And the moment when love seems to leave us,
Empty handed,
With nothing to say
| Author Notes |
this is a minimalist free verse piece, in which the music is constructed out of repetitions of "love' in various evolving forms, with an ear to shorter and longer threads of language and dramatic pauses, and images. It sort of rings hollow, intentionally, as a comment on the underlying feelings beneath the excitement.
Today we seem to be caught up with appearances, with sensations, and a good measure of self indulgence, and this contrasts with what love is really all about. like many of my poems, it underwent several rewrites, until reaching its current form. estory |
By estory
I have seen all kinds of places
That go beyond
Saying,
The many places in the corners of my mind
Left standing,
The places I thought of
When I was someplace else,
The places that always seem to be
One step ahead of you,
The places that I left behind
On my journeys to the places
I am now,
The last place that I would look for you,
The first thing that comes to mind
When you say this
Could be anyplace.
| Author Notes | This is a free verse piece using elements of minimalism, the repetitions of the word 'place' to create a sense of music in the language. It is also quite surreal, dream like, creating a place in between places, a hope, a memory, an ambition of place. We all started from somewhere, and we are going somewhere else, and on the way, we are someplace else altogether, and yet in a sense we are in all places at the same time, through hope and memory. estory |
By estory
The globalization of ideas
The globalization of industries
The globalization of economies
Economies of scale
The scales of trivialization
The trivialization of individuals
Individuals caught up in a massive undertaking
The economic advantages of competing on a global scale
In an effort to maximize the economic leverage
Of vertically integrated companies
Attaining economic advantages
On a global scale
A scale of globalization,
The globalization of cultures
The globalization of religions
The globalization of languages
The common denominators of people,
People reduced to their lowest common denominators
The evaporations of differentiations
Offices without walls
Countries without borders
People without identities
The globalization of cultural identities
The globalization of artistic sensibilities
The globalization of global societies
The globalization of globalization
| Author Notes | This poem uses repetitions of words and an emotionless phrasing to depict the methodical, mechanical business model that erases individualism and the uniqueness of cultures in order to create a business model where people are reduced to a means to an end, and simple consumers supporting the money making machines. It is a lament on the destruction of the unique traits that make up the diversified world we used to live in. And in the end, the pursuit of this globalization proves meaningless. In a world where the pursuit of wealth has become a religion, and consumerism a culture, I think this kind of music, if you can call it that, fits estory |
By estory
White water spirit
An old song of renewal
Speaks to me
Alone in the woods
Where memories are buried
New firs sprout
White water spirit
Born out of the dark, cold rock
Releases
Into the clear sky
On the wings of an eagle
Where we climb
This turbulent stream
The birth of a bright angel
This morning
| Author Notes | The Origami haiku is one of my own inventions. Basically, it is a traditional haiku in meter except for the last line, which has only three syllables. I wanted to throw the stanzas just a little off balance. I like doing them in sequences dripping into each other, linked by a common thread of meditation. The natural image and epiphany moment from traditional haiku stay. In this case, the poem was inspired by a hike to Arethusa Falls in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The image of the waterfall, the deeply rooted fir trees around it, and the birds, speak here of accumulated memories lost, hopes for the future, renewal of spirit, transformation through experience and struggle. estory |
By estory
I am waiting in line, waiting to be served,
Waiting for my cup of coffee
Until the coffee is cold
I take a number and wait for it to be called,
Standing there with my hands in my pockets
As if I have nothing else to do
Or no place else to go
Until I get what I was waiting for
Waiting in traffic, waiting for the light to turn green,
I stare at the places I am waiting to get to
Waiting to punch in, waiting to punch out,
Waiting for my instructions
Watching and waiting for something,
Waiting for something to do
Watching the ladies in waiting
Waiting around
I am waiting for the bus,
Reading the newspaper while I wait
Wondering how late the bus will be
Waiting for the doors to open,
I talk to someone else waiting there
As if we hadn't come for anything else
Long waits, short waits,
Passing the time,
Waiting in the cues of ticket lines
The delays and the traffic jams
And the waiting rooms
We sit around waiting for things to happen in
| Author Notes | This is a poem in which the word waiting transports us to all kinds of situations in life, all kinds of places, and we realize how much time we spend waiting around in our lives, and how much anticipation is a part of life. Indeed, it can be said that anticipation is the better part of the experience. and it builds character estory |
By estory
Above Chang Mai,
Above the monasteries
On the mountain tops
In the clouds
Above the mountains,
Above even the clouds
Where clean and white
Feathers of birds
In flight
Rise into the skies,
Constellations of stars,
Lotus blossoms,
An indescribable delight
| Author Notes | I thought my friend Rama Devi would like this. The title is from an old Brian Eno composition from Music For Film. It inspired me to write a poem about hope, about spirit, about freedom and a sublimity of personal connection with a wider spirit manifested in the nature around us. I wanted an open format that captures the sense of uplifting transformation of spirit estory |
By estory
The pieces of parts,
The pieces of the parts of whole pieces,
The pieces included in packages of assemblies
Along with the ready to assemble pieces,
The furniture pieces of furnished apartments
And moving pieces that move around
The pieces of puzzles that don't seem to fit,
The small pieces and the large pieces
And the little pieces within the big pieces
That go unnoticed,
Pieces that light up when you plug them in
The blank pieces of paper
We write our poetry pieces
And pieces of music on
A piece of my mind
Made up out of the pieces
That I find scattered around, piecemeal
Pieces of eight
The game pieces we move around on our game boards with,
Rolling the dice, counting our steps, going back three spaces
The bits and pieces of conversations,
Dramatic pieces espoused out loud
Time pieces punctually telling the time,
Pieces of metal, pieces of glass,
Things broken into pieces
And all those missing pieces
We always seem to be looking for
| Author Notes | This is a poem that revolves around the word 'pieces', taking off on all the tangents that are possible when considering all these pieces of our lives, the pieces laying around our rooms, our poetry pieces, the pieces we always lose and can't seem to find. It is in the end, all these little pieces that make up a life. estory |
By estory
A handwriting of dreamers
Drifting off in mid sentances
Lost in translation,
The thoughts of idle hands,
The idle hands of day dreamers,
The daydreams of scribblers
Scribbling out
Wavering lines,
Half drawn,
Misshapen
In mid air
The bits and pieces
Of pictures
Day dreamed
In mid sentence;
The scrolls of scrawl
Idling,
The scrolls of scrawl
Unrolled,
Untangled
Out of the tangled lines of tangled sentances;
Open paper
Crumpled up
Pictures
Half drawn;
The scrambled signals
Paused, still
In mid air
Misspoken, indecipherable
The day dreamers lost,
Half drawn,
Drifting off in mid sentance
| Author Notes | Scribble is one of those free verse pieces that was fun to write, as the tangled up images and sounds wove together and separated on the page, in an excersise of creating music with words. |
By estory
Backwards talking
Backwards talking am I,
Backwards talking am I, now, still
Backwards talking am I, now, still standing
Still standing now,
Still standing after
Standing still
Standing
In reverse
In reverse in talking
In reverse in
Reverse in going,
Reverse in going, backwards
Reverse in going, backwards running in
Reverse in going, backwards
Going in reverse
In going, backwards running
Backwards
Rewinding backwards
Back in rewinding in
Spaces between
Spaces between spaces
In between spaces
Between in spaces
Spaces between spaces
Winding spaces between spaces
Up winding spaces between
Spaces
Up winding spaces between in spaces
Up winding spaces between in
Up winding spaces between
Up winding spaces
Up winding
Up
| Author Notes | This is a minimalist poem, basically a pure musical exercise with language. It was fun to write, playing around with the effects of rewinding words and playing them back, winding them in on themselves, until they disappeared from where they came from. Poetry is really the art of making music with language, and I have always been interested in trying to come up with new ways to do that, experimenting making music out of repeating patterns of words and sounds rather than using meter, and rhyme scheme. It is kind of machine like in tone, in feel, so I think in some ways it can serve as a comment on our experience of life today. Moments in time can be rewound, and played back, at will. But it kind of hollows out the emotions from the experience, the more you play it back and experience it. estory |
By estory
Please select
Language, location, identification
Before communicating
All information will be transposed
To database
Please wait
Please wait
Error
Does not compute
Does not compute
Does not
Return to main menu
Please select
Language, location, identification
Error
Communication error
Language selected
Information requested
Does not compute
Does not compute
Database not compatible
Communication unintelligible
Error
Please wait
Please repeat
Select language
Please repeat
Return to main menu
Computation transposed please compute
Analysis wait please identify
language selected not selected not
Function disorder transposed
Database language unintelligible
Please wait please select please transpose please
Wait select language please compute analysis error
Please repeat message repeat function
Compute message transpose database
Identify analysis selected compute please
Wait database error
Repeat please wait
Database error
Error
| Author Notes | This is an experience I think we've all had at one time or another, and it really speaks about the relationship of people to machines in our world. it can be frustrating, and frightening, to think about how helpless we are In our relationship with machines. musically, this uses repeating patterns of sound to create poetry out of language, rather than rhyme schemes and iambic pentameter. I like to explore new forms, dare to be different, and stretch the imagination, challenging the creative process, and create something we can relate to in our contemporary world estory |
By estory
I
Initiating, connecting;
Conversations connected together
Out of disconnected individuals
On interconnected networks
Of international connections
Connecting together the conversations
Of interconnected individuals
That connect on the networks of connections
Connecting together the conversations
Out of disconnected
II
Parts connected to
Places connected to
Figures connected to
Facts connected to
Data connected to
Devices connected to
Networks connected to
III
Interrelated interconnected networks
Of associated connections
Within affiliated interconnected organizations
With connections to unaffiliated associated
Connections of integrated systems
Interrelated in the connected networks
Disconnected from the associations
Within the Interconnected affiliations
IV
Connect the cables together as shown
And plug the connections into the parts
Connecting the interconnected devices
Into the network connections
And unplug the interconnected cables
Of the system connections until
the system is disconnected from
V
Dots
Connected to lines
Connected to figures connected
To forms connected to designs connected to
Conceptions connected to conceptualizations
Connected to
C
| Author Notes | This is a poem with connections to...nowhere. It is a poem really about disconnection, about how the human experience is disconnected by mechanical devices and electric systems, how our world is fragmented by all these connections. Hence the fragmented form, and the incomplete sentences. the music of the poem is derived here by repetitions of the word 'connect' in variated forms. I am aiming for a density of sound here, a densely interwoven pattern of sound in slight variations. |
By estory
Light that
Light that shines
Light that shines bright
Light that shines bright like
Light that shines bright like white
Light that shines bright like white lights
In reflections of light like faces glistening
Across windows of radiant white phosphorescence
In a scintillating effect of crossed iridescent beams
of light scattered across the skylights like snow
Above the reflections of figures glittering in the windows
Scattered across the skylights of
All of the lights of the city seen across
the snow white skyline of the city lights
Sparkling in the faces in the white windows
Above the searchlights in between the beams
Of the headlights of the cars on the streets
Of light in the sky above the city of lights
And the white stars glittering in the space like
Points of
Points of light in
Points of light in tight
Points of light in tight little
Points of light in tight little circles of
Points of light in tight little circles of points
Polished into bright little points of light
Glittering on the sparkling white skin
Like starlight on the white marble monuments of the city
Scintillating across the white windows of light
Above the snow white faces in the lights
That shine in the sky above the city of light
Above the city of light
The city of light
Light
| Author Notes | This poem is similar to Connections in that I am aiming here for a density of sound, a subtlety of imagery, and a surreal connection of image to sound to experience. It is another one of my explorations of minimalism, using repetitions of patterns of sound to create the music in language rather than ordered meter and rhyme scheme. Scintillation is part of a project, a collaboration, in which a friend is attempting to set percussion music to the poetry in a mixed media experience. The ultimate aim is to include another friend, a video artist, to incorporate poetry with music and video to create a true mixed media performance. I am interested in listening to the result, and await his rendition. estory |
By estory
Weightless
Weightless in their orbits
Around the planet Earth
In orbit
In orbit
The spy satellites
The weather satellites
The telecommunications satellites
Communicating
Communicating information
With their dish antennas
And their solar panels
High resolution pictures
Infrared time lapse images
Digitally compressed news
Long distance telephone conversations
Received and transmitted
Around and around
The planet Earth
In orbit
in orbit
From outer space
We can see the satellites
The spy satellites
And the weather satellites
And the telecommunications satellites
Glitter in the sunlight
With their golden solar panels extended
And their dish antennas pointed back to Earth
Going around and around and around
With all of their blinking lights
All of their blinking lights
Blinking lights
Blinking
Lights
| Author Notes | This is a poem in which I tried to capture that sensation of being in space, up there with the satellites, flying around the earth in orbit, weightless, exchanging all that information. To capture that sense of orbit, I used repetitions, and I tried to throw in a little sinister element with all those spy satellites, and a sense of the coldness of the mechanical machines going about their programs, with nothing you can do about it. estory |
By estory
Around the curves of the circles
Of the wheels in the curves
Of the circles around the edges
Within the rims around the wheels
Around the circles of the curves
That curve into circles
The lines of the curves of circles
Of curves
The curves of the edges
Of circles
The circles around the circles
The curves of sounds around
The grooves of records
Playing music in circles
Stuck in the grooves
Of records
The orbits of the planets
In the curves of gravity
Around the spheres of stars
In the circles of galaxies
The points of lines bent into circles
Around the centers of points
In the centers of circles
Around curves around circles around
The center of circles
Circling the centers of curves
In the wheels of lines
Curving around
The curves of the rims
Of the circles of wheels
Around the circles of curves
Of circles of circles of circles
| Author Notes | This poem is made up out of the music of 'r' and 's' sounds repeating in a dense pattern, looping around each other, intertwining, like a celtic emblem. I threw in little well known images; the round records we played when we were kids,, the wheels of cars, the planets going around and around in their orbits. It was a fun poem to write, and I hope, fun to read as well, a new kind of explosion of poetic sound estory |
By estory
Echoes
Echoes of voices
Echoes of voices calling
Echoes of voices calling in the distance
Of voices calling in the distance
Calling in the distance
In the distance
Distance
Distant
Distant faces
Distant faces lost
Distant faces lost to time
Faces lost to time
Lost to time
Time
Time glimmering
Time glimmering in
Time glimmering in a window
Time glimmering in a broken window
Glimmering in a broken window
A broken window
A window
A window
A window looking back
A window looking back across
A window looking back across the space
Looking back across the space
Back across the space
Across the space
The space
Space
Spaces empty
Spaces empty of light
Empty of light
Of light
Light
| Author Notes | This is another example of the method of minimalism, of using repeating patterns to create the music of language in poetry. It is kind of a romantic theme, lost love, broken relationships, and the I thought the echo would be a perfect mechanism for capturing it. Here we have a sense of distance in space and time, of fragments of images glittering in the emptiness, voices hanging in the air, calling after us, after we've gone. estory |
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