Sand wrote:
NOT QUITE SO BRIGHT
I see the tiger in the zoo
With days and months and years
Of nothing to do.
His yellow eyes are filled
With infinities of tragedies.
This box of iron has willed
He must carry to and fro
His heavy yellow yearnings
Whose wish is just to go.
Some delinquent night I could try
To slip back here, when the moon,
Blindfolded by a cloud, its eye
Undiscerning to permit
The mice and me
A modicum of
Invisibility.
I would find the tiger’s cage unlocked.
“Come!”, I would beckon with my finger
And, in delight and surprise,
He would arise.
At first, in haste, we would not linger.
A quiet thunder in his throat
Would reveal an urgent note
And we would quickly pace
To make ourselves remote.
Through the murky alleyways
And ill-lit streets we would flee.
I would scout ahead
And he would follow me
Until we reached the sanctuary of my place
Where the doorman, ever discrete,
Would let us in
And gaze politely at his feet.
Up the elevator we would ride,
My finger on the button to my floor
With the tiger, yawning, at my side.
And then to bed
Where I would snooze
With the tiger stretched upon the rug
Which he would choose.
Next morning, in the bright of day,
We would make our plans.
I would figure out a way,
While making scrambled eggs
In several frying pans,
How we would spend our day.
But first, I must teach him
To perambulate on two legs.
That done, he’d don a derby hat,
A cut down pair of jeans
And, above that,
A sweater, turtle neck
And running shoes.
And then, we’d hit the deck.
On our morning’s stroll
He’d twitch his ears
At the taxi hoots, the buses’ growl
And suppress his disconcerting thought
About the city traffic clatter.
He will wonder why I brought
Him from his sterile sanctum
Into the nerve-wracking panic.
But it really wouldn’t matter.
Offhandedly he’d gobble down
A dog or two,
Perhaps, a pigeon and a sparrow.
This would cause distress.
I cautioned his ability
To violate finesse
He must maintain civility,
Or we’d end up in a mess.
Back at home, we’d discourse on
Basic metaphysics.
I’d do the dishes while he’d dry
And juggle them for kicks.
Nietzsche was his man, of course,
While I inclined to Kant.
He’d speak incessantly with force
With a tendency to rant.
In the end, he’d do well.
His personality was strong.
Wall Street was his first aim
But he’d ended in Hong Kong.
He’d be successful, as things go,
Being so relentless,
Becoming a rich CEO
Totally repentless.
This is really REALLY good. Have you ever considered sending this off to a journal or something Sand? I mean it, this is professional standard poetry you've got here.
In keeping with the theme of the thread I'll post one of mine;
MAN AND WOMAN
I’ve lost track of the days.
Where are you?
I think
At 6:15pm did you sit on your rough textured sheets, suffocated, squinting through the blinds at the dirty orange red sky like I did
Are you waiting
As I wait
It is all so wearying.
falsity, the superficiality of living.
I read the personals in the paper this morning.
We watched movies
And I felt so bored
human activity
is boring, pointless, endless,
the same.
Are people happy in this ongoing repetition
without love
Happy to be no more than repetitions
of repetition like
washing machine cycles
in wash rinse spin out.
Dry.
With you, I am repetition
Right.
Without you
I am borderline
Wrong.
Human activity
Is all this longing
for you to be not broken
All the vases, marble, dinner plates, crystal chandeliers, bicycles, newspapers, Victorian sculptures, GTA2 computer games, peoples foreheads I’ve broken didn’t matter like you—human activity
is breaking until we all die.
I guess if you’re broken
it doesn’t really matter
because I’m broken too.
This way, we’re together.
_________________
Into the dark...
01 Dec 2008, 5:46 pm
