Friday, July 22, 2005
A LITTLE PROBLEM WITH THE EYE puts me in mind of mortality. (Excuse the exaggeration: Ive been seeing Shakespeare plays.) And then I find, in the to-do pile, this poem, written a few years ago for Carl Rakosi:
SO, Carl, a friend,
another Charles, writes of your impending
birthday a centennial!
And Ive dreamed
this morning of Symphony and Book,
thinking there must be something that relates them,
distinguishes them from casual collections,
leverages, as investors use the word,
their Meaning into greater Meaningfulness.
Well, lifes like that.
The life well lived, in interesting times
no Chinese curse!
Observing, mulling it over,
coming to no conclusions, just collecting.
You do one thing, and then you do another,
The words and lines pile up. Or else they dont.
With any luck well get it figured out,
or some of it, in time. Or else we wont.
You say it well:
the larger, perhaps different meaning
these poems have (newly strewn), is to be found,
when it is there,
in the arrangement.
What will not be found is the coherence
of a composition.
We arent composed.
Like books and symphonies we take our shape
as other eyes and ears encounter us.
Meaning is basic.
Ive learned from you.
Intention is my biggest enemy,
As you know well!
And with him comes
Intentions lapdog. Slam the doors on both!
Thats what I think Ive heard you telling me;
Our Book evolves with us, thinking, feeling,
discarding when it must, or falling silent,
And none of us can tell where it will end.
July 7 2003