March 07, 2007

On Reverdy Road

They like poetry that isnít.
Not the kind that wakes into you
the way eyes gleam candid

in shadow, untrimmed wicks,
or that you grab from casual breezes
barehanded at dawn. When

donít the words in a poem
count? When they fall into a pit
and Dear Reader goes tumbling after.

 
—Barry Schwabsky
____
from the sequence For Despair, published as a chapbook by Seeing Eye Books, Los Angeles, 2005.

Posted by dwaber at 12:54 PM

March 06, 2007

Diary of a Poem

 

Prose refuted:

struck, the blank hour stays
struckóan indoor resolution
and most merciless of all
the colors we tweaked together

prose refuted:

rumor slides across rumor
each remembers to search my morning suspect

she loves the sound of breaking chains.

 

*

Prose refuted:

struck, the hour stays
struckóan indoor resolution
and most merciless of all
your face made me noisy

the essay melted
in the blood mine
as if we had any choice

prose refuted:

that rumor enjambed on
a plaque in the red-brick museum of loneliness
you need so much research to make it beautiful
but please don't make me say it.

 

*

Prose refuted:

next best thing to wordless
the violet day hammers along
and most merciless of all
impossible to have been present without

taking part
in those colors

prose refuted:

God sleeps in his Word
get flung out of pretty
you need so much research to make it beautiful
but please donít make me say it.

 
*

Prose refuted:

struck, the next best thing to wordless
the essay melted
and makes you want to crash
what sky-blue distance wrote

prose refuted:

so if I had a diary
even critics pass away
they want to search my morning suspect

she loves the sound of breaking chains.

 
*

Prose refuted:

the essay melted
a space to peer into and lean
out of

thrones, dominions
in the casual sense

prose refuted:

God sleeps in his grassy Word
whose angel folds me carefully

the colors we tweaked together
his outtakes and bloopers.

 
*

Prose refuted:

rumor slides across rumor
I sank into it but forgot to drown

this canary borne repeating
on fast clouds

toward prose refuted:

go forth little saffron bird
toward inquorate nights of poetry
your rumor
more than gone.

 
*

Prose refuted:

in this bronze museum
Rembrandt, lift me up to golden failure
let grief pacification false memory
drift outside the book

prose refuted:

donít kiss
all she wants is
your every forgiveness

letís get out our pretty rumors
in the sunlight
more than gone

lipidic colors
prose refuted.

 

—Barry Schwabsky
____
published last year in the book Storia di un quadro/History of a Painting,
by Maria Morganti, Mantua, Edizioni Corraini

Posted by dwaber at 12:22 PM