Apologia

Fine work, Steve!

Maybe like Larkin:

Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:
However the sky grows dark with invitation-cards
However we follow the printed directions of sex
However the family is photographed under the flag-staff -
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.

Beneath it all, the desire for oblivion runs:
Despite the artful tensions of the calendar,
The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites,
The costly aversion of the eyes away from death -
Beneath it all, the desire for oblivion runs.

Though in that phrase of Kafka’s there must be the hope of ripping up all previous expression and creating something completely new.

When I did this I was thinking of the last entry in Kafka’s diary:

“More and more fearful as I write. It is understandable. Every word, twisted in the hands of the spirits-this twist of the hand is their characteristic gesture-becomes a spear turned against the speaker. Most especially a remark like this. And so ad infinitum.......”

But perhaps we do “have weapons.” Laughter being one of them.

I hope Montaigne can help.

Excellent creation !!!

It's a brilliant poem, Steve.
And who is the author?
Whoever he is, he is a real poet. The lines penetrate immediately into the soul, bypassing both the mind and even the heart. It's simple and ingenious.

I’d forgotten this one completely. Thanks, yes, it’s mine. It looks like I was writing one a day at this time.
But when I look at my comments now I sound like a pretentious little show off. Six years later, has anything changed? Good question, Steve.

If you don't mind, I will publish your poem on my website. I think that this beautiful poem should be read by other people. In Russia, many people know English, in any case, I will attach a translation.
For me, the measure of poetry is the German modernist Rilke. You have exactly what distinguishes mediocrity from talent - I call it "universal scope".

I don’t mind.

I’m reading more Rilke at the moment. There’s a newly published collection here called Poems to Night.

Here’s something I’ve written just now.

Night Poem

We’re all crushed beneath the weight of his angels,
we’re wheezing for breath.
He’s following us through the subways,
through the shattered streets.
We see him in black puddles
catch his face at windows.
His eyes are blinding.
What does he want from us?
What does he need?
Reparation? What did we do
to him? What did history do?
What did Germany do?
Is it what we didn’t become,
what he tried to teach us?
We slump in our corners,
in our comfortable armchairs,
dejected, wings like lead,
blood on our lips.
Does he still call us?
The streets rattle in our heads
like laughter, like freedom, like death.

Very cool, Steve. You are a real poet. I have published your poem with an accompanying article in two languages - Russian and English. Here is the link. I don't have many readers, the blog doesn't have much time, and it's not promoted, but there are visitors.

mariarainer.ucoz.ru/blog/steve_bucknell_apologia/2024-03-22-89