nonaligned effort
inside are the chills
words can only remember
snow formed into hills
the angel will not leave
the blood is obscured
in today's freeze
my young friend throws
the drifts aside
for maybe only hours
like the life recorded
in my notebooks
always coming back
these same flaws
I know my blood
my fingers ragged
with nonaligned effort
the dusty keys static
without magic
should you ever know
me better surely
you would phone me?
the sense is like the soft snow
it drifts and comes again
this thought is fleeting
Again a poem that uses snow as a metaphor for the repititious shit of daily existence that interferes with the "magic", which of course would be the creative process. Underlying this sentiment however is the sense that what the narrator knows of a certain relationship is like the soft snow, drifting and returning but the knowledge itself isn't real. This piece is from before I became a hardcore truth addict. In those days, the seventies, we prided ourselves on recognizing that there wasn't necessarily a truth. This allowed us to be ambivalent and take different positions based on our current evaluation of the world through the prism of our own egos. Oh, not everybody did this. Maybe only I did this. Well, me and J., anyway. Everything could change, minute by minute. No matter how much your worked at it, the snow accumulated. All you could do, really, was to lie down in it and spread your arms and legs and leave the image of an angel.
words can only remember
snow formed into hills
the angel will not leave
the blood is obscured
in today's freeze
my young friend throws
the drifts aside
for maybe only hours
like the life recorded
in my notebooks
always coming back
these same flaws
I know my blood
my fingers ragged
with nonaligned effort
the dusty keys static
without magic
should you ever know
me better surely
you would phone me?
the sense is like the soft snow
it drifts and comes again
this thought is fleeting
Again a poem that uses snow as a metaphor for the repititious shit of daily existence that interferes with the "magic", which of course would be the creative process. Underlying this sentiment however is the sense that what the narrator knows of a certain relationship is like the soft snow, drifting and returning but the knowledge itself isn't real. This piece is from before I became a hardcore truth addict. In those days, the seventies, we prided ourselves on recognizing that there wasn't necessarily a truth. This allowed us to be ambivalent and take different positions based on our current evaluation of the world through the prism of our own egos. Oh, not everybody did this. Maybe only I did this. Well, me and J., anyway. Everything could change, minute by minute. No matter how much your worked at it, the snow accumulated. All you could do, really, was to lie down in it and spread your arms and legs and leave the image of an angel.
Labels: Snow Angels
posted by As Bjorn at 10:04 PM
1 Comments:
I've always been a fairly hardcore realist, as you should be well-aware. I have my fantastical leanings, but they're always towards fantasy which really isn't the same thing as an anti-truth, if you know what I mean. Anyways, I think life would be easier if it were like snow, but, ultimately, way more depressing. After all, snowflakes always melt in your hands.
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