ars poetica

 

WHITE PALL

(for regina writing her exit)

 

but for the death of each word

it's this white pall of the page i must bear

 

 

white pillow of the page

that leads me to [poetry?]

luxurious open space

for my eyes to rest

 

~

 

quiet enough to listen

to see what's listened to beyond

nothing to do with thinking

 

~

 

a private language written in a secret handwriting

 

~

 

this strained white tension of silence

for my words to blurt

 

~

 

but how can i not help erase myself

in the ridiculousness of

ink the embalming fluid of

words the sarcophagi of

thought the death of

knowing

ridicule

 

~

 

what if by greeting each other

we speak poetry

what if our language upon arrival

breaks down into profound syllables of seeing

i mean seeing each other as an ecstatic first moment

and when we part

as if we'll never see each other again

 

~

 

inhuman and obscene

breaking the dreaminess of your morning thoughts

reading a newspaper

 

~

 

as seldom as i see you

your death with me is ok

i know you are always where you're supposed to be

our conversation continues

the look you give me continually guides/chides

 

~

 

stretched out on the beach

i am the horizon

stretched out on my bed of sand

cry of gulls rolling slamming surf

as the horizon i will also be forever

 

 

—Craig Czury

____

from IN MY SILENCE TO JUSTIFY, FootHills Publishing, 2003

http://foothillspublishing.com/pre-2005/id39.htm

 

 

DIVERSE ARTICULITUS

 

 

there is something inexorable under the surface

a word i’ve never used

 

 

 

 

 

poetry the last language before death

 

~

 

of the two schools

writing what i don’t know interests me most

 

~

 

somewhere between looking and seeing

it only appears i’m not paying attention

 

the punishment is severe

 

~

 

do you still think memory

has anything to do with thinking

 

~

 

what else in this transparent beauty

 

at which moment

 

~

 

the distance between reading and visualizing

transversation

 

~

 

you already know not to open your eyes

 

~

 

all this talk of memory

we were both there

yet your telling and my telling

 

~

 

that quizzical look

takes me under language

 

~

 

that lost look never more found

 

~

 

between what i remember

and what i’ve imagined

 

~

 

all the way from death to show me

 

~

 

at the brink recognizable

 

~

 

i don’t believe in a poetry written from a singular mind

 

neither do I

 

~

 

the odds favor sea salt

blood breaking in on the blood

 

 

 

 

—Craig Czury

____

from IN MY SILENCE TO JUSTIFY, FootHills Publishing, 2003

http://foothillspublishing.com/pre-2005/id39.htm