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Old 03-05-2014, 09:03 PM View Post #1 (Link) Missing something (Isis and Tredyakovsky)
Tredyakovsky (Offline)
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Join Date: Jul 2010
Location: sheffield/southampton
Posts: 81
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I'm in the process of making you a book of poetry
It'll be good when it's done
I promise. I've tried to section the parts into four
so you may stick with me, on the same path

I thought about binding the pages in ribbon
but that wouldn't make sense
because I'm not a gentle person. But I'll put the pages
in order

at the very least. I sectioned my life into parts for you.
I even named them. The first section had the name
'pink tassels on the back of some rollerskates, and
a lot of eczema.' The second section pulled
away from being named, but I tagged it anyway--
'A council house, and the kind of embarrassment
girls who read experience.'
Subtler, the third section: 'Chaos, or a
conceptual scheme?' Last:
'Heights.'

This is not the kind of book you review, or share
with your friends. But I'd like you to have an opinion
on it anyway. In my parents' house growing up
we had a fish that swallowed stones
only to purge them; he was spring
cleaning, all the time. That
is what I mean.

And you're in it, of course. At one point
I talk about how you are a peach. Not because
you're soft, or supple, or both, or anything
like that, but because the first time I met you
you were wearing creamorange lipstick
and I know I'll never see anyone
pull it off again

I try to pull out recurring themes and it was easier
than I thought it would be. I guess human
beings aren't drowning in track marks afterall.
I noticed I talk about two things at once a lot
never just cars, always driving my car while you're
in a field of corn in the rain, or I am in my car
driving it but I'm thinking about being with you
in the corn or I am on a train to Birmingham remembering
being on a train when I was eleven
and everything the window showed me was magic, sped-up.

There is a clock in every poem, always
in the form of a watch, and I am always the one wearing it.
I'm not necessarily watching the clock
in every single poem, but each world I write about
has time, and I keep track of it.
In one instance, it's Shrove Tuesday
and I know, in the tense of your wrist, tensing
the pan in your fists
it is not going to make the cut. I watch
the pancake catch the edge of the pan, half
as the other half sears for the floor.
I count three seconds, almost

I write about faces in the afterthought of the dark
I write about faces in places you'd only see
them if you really, really knew them
enough to be there
The left side of the bed, above the sink
when you look in from out the back garden.
Between the back of the passenger seat
and the floor, that wild space. You haven't seen
a face untamed until you've seen a face in
a place where the legs
normally rest

In my poems I try to articulate certain feelings
and give up immediately. I say things like
the sound of some sort of vehicle, going past, fast--
I feel like a foreign country, I feel like whatever
is inside me is sadder than it would be inside
a person who is landlocked--
All the time, I click my tongue to a rhythm
I have never heard anywhere--
No, my thoughts, all the time, click, tim, tum
tam--
I am so conjoined--
  
						Last edited by Tredyakovsky; 06-15-2015 at 06:29 PM.
					
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