Sunday, April 16, 2006

Well Done

In "celebration" of "Poetry Month"...

I am done with poetry.
Henceforth, I write postmortem.

I am done with poetry
that doesn’t sound like poetry,
and poetry that reads
like grocery lists and Hallmark cards.
I am done with wisdom about life,
and lack of wisdom about life.
I am done with writing nobody reads.

I am done with readings where nobody listens,
where the only voice anyone wants to hear
is their own.
(But I should have guessed—
they are, after all
called Readings, not Listenings.)

I am done with my cynicism,
and with yours.
I am done with the silences
between my words.
I am done with magazines and journals
nobody reads—not even their publishers,
and I am done with publishers.
I am done with the guilt of not reading
other’s work—Who reads anyhow?
And why should anyone?

Here is to Poetry month! Here is to
Poetry Blogging! Here is to
Laureateships and the New Yorker!
Here is to expectations
that always need to be lowered!
And here is to words nobody reads,
and site nobody visits!

I am going back to wax,
back to baking my mother in the oven.
I am going back to my silence,
and to collecting dust bunnies
where the wall meets the floor.
I am going back to knowing
I am nobody,
and you are nobody,
and nobody’s listening…


katy said...

nobody = everyone but katy

arch.memory said...

I'm afraid that is true, dear. Painfully true... :)

Billy Jones said...

Well I hope you change your mind.

arch.memory said...

I hope so, too, Billy!

alice said...

I love this.

What's more stupid than writing poetry? Nothing.

But for some sick reason that doesn't stop me from writing, even though I quit everyday. I have a feeling you can't stop either.

arch.memory said...

Alice, you are so right; poetry might be one of the most self-defeating activities on earth. I just hope your feeling it right as well!

Eve said...

there's always someone reading, even when you don't know it.

a poet dies a little when left alone. that's when he misses poetry and writes again.

arch.memory said...

That is so beautifully said, dear: "a poet dies a little when left alone".
I saw your lovely pictures from Jabal Moussa; I will be in Lebanon, soon. It probably will be tough for me to make it on Saturday night (they're precious, you know), but I'd love to meet you this time!

Eve said...

yeah? I'd like that too. drop me an email & consider yourself booked for an outing :)

katy said...

nobody is growing

like a tree

Anonymous said...

1. Katy is brilliant, like a star
2. "I am going back to wax,
back to baking my mother in the oven."

Brilliant. There is something absolutely brilliant about baking our mothers in ovens, or maybe it is just about baking Randa in the oven.

Ton frère Ahmad

katy said...

shukran khayyeh

how you osman boys do flatter!

Anonymous said...

My worst habit

Jelaluddin Rumi

My worst habit is I get so tired of winter
I become a torture to those I'm with.

If you're not here, nothing grows.
I lack clarity. My words
tangle and knot up.

How to cure bad water? Send it back to the river.
How to cure bad habits? Send me back to you.

When water gets caught in habitual whirlpools,
dig a way out through the bottom
to the ocean. There is a secret medicine
given only to those who hurt so hard
they can't hope.

The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.

Look as long as you can at the friend you love,
no matter whether that friend is moving away from you
or coming back toward you.

Jelaluddin Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)

Talk to Mevlana Rumi and you'll connect with your elusive self and enjoy wholeness in times of fragmentation and you'll stride through the dark night of the soul!
Be strong and believe that The One pilots our destinies. Be, as my good friend advised me, 'Needlessy Happy!"

Anonymous said...

excellent....excellent....perhaps, you needed a drink too...all true, but still hope you feel better now. all jobs, all jobs are like this....


I appreciated your allusion to Miss Em'ly... Keep writing.