Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.
this blue comes on
impossibly vivid, like
febrile intense visions, with
both eyes dilated and gazing out preposterous
prescription lens
a ceramic cup for hot tea
against a martial arctic front advancing south
the steam curls against my nose and mouth, but
the cup is much too blue with untruth
that no one fathoms
we might just slip and stumble through
the cracks between astonished atoms
and leave this rumble-tumble world (so hard
to understand) for good: now,
wouldn't that be grand?
Now, I usually don't take to this sort of conscious dilation of capital letters but here this actually makes sense or, rather, blurs/dilates the sense which emphasizes the even deeper sense, sort of like a Matroschka doll. Heavens, this is so strange, almost science fiction, like something of Herbert or Stanislav Lem with your own sense of the world and the mystic added for good measure. The contrasts are stark, burrowing themselves like beneficial bacteria in the confines of your organism before you know it and you are helplessly bamboozled by the blistering (or freezing) magnitude of the serotonin concoction alphabet soup. The atoms, the grand cosmos, the miniscule and the great, the powers that be, the mysteries unknown yet mesmerizing in their beauty and, ah, in the very state of being pristine lands as yet undiscovered- they are right against your nose and mouth and eye and finger, by the eye of your conscious, by the eye of perception but much like bacteria- elusive and unseen by the unaided receptor.
ReplyDeleteOn the note: Your most recent, 'eye-themed' poetry seems to be more touching and heartfelt than ever. This one is philosophical, yes, but alive too and incites a plethora of divergent emotion in the core of my being. It is perhaps true, then, that suffering is the primary muse of the poet (or creator in general, since poet is Greek for the former. Without nurture and necessity, we would still be apes). I will play it on the safe side and depart now with the nauseatingly vague phrase of 'wish you luck', so as to avoid any uncalled for partiality towards the person or the literary output. Luck equals happiness and that's a different story entirely from man to man.