December 11, 2008

Not a religion, poem. Key?

This is consciously a poem and so must try
to outstare itself. It knows itself by its
line breaks. And clever self-referencing.
Its lack of narrative is clear–

we’re waiting.

And again.

‘Here’ lies. an opportunity. Your eyes can speak
of symbols, signs of things that haven’t come
in a visual age: an end to war, despite a War
to end them all. And suffering, despite a fat man’s
sculpted illusion. You have your peace, B.
I prefer my conflicted version.

But this is consciously a poem, not
a religion. It’s a chance to speak
without dogmatism, without a voice

if you choose. And to read without one, too.
Chance forewords drop from the air
or out of your mind’s eye, whetted and appetised
.. .
No pictures anywhere! So is reality nowhere?
Yes, we can be happy at last. Reality freed.

Costing nothing, giving nothing. All
consuming, a self-conscious //
“not mean”. Or try this ~

Art? Always ‘not art’. Its one
great purpose. Don’t blame the // or the ~
or even the ____ for their re-thanking.
When you’re in a dark cell, ancient
ring pulls from Coke cans feel like keys.

—Paul Mitchell
first appeared in Eureka Street

Posted by dwaber at December 11, 2008 12:38 PM