Friday, December 28, 2012

poem || Peter Sherburn-Zimmer

In Place of a Private Winter
So, I wrote 'Insistence in an Archaic Language'
and the poem that thought it was about Ferlinghetti
but was about Pound instead.  I woke up
thinking about the difficulty in writing in a private language,
even to myself, ...the trouble communicating
fifty years ago when none of what I said
made any sense to anyone else
and decided I wasn't going to feel bad about that
and wasn't going to feel bad about myself
even if today wasn't all that much fun
or wasn't what I wanted it to be
with watching old movies and all that.
I can write myself anything I want to
and don't need to show it around or
I can show it around and pretend other people
need to understand it, even if they don't.
They think it's a joke when I say
it's all in code anyway or they don't think
I know what I'm saying when I say that.
But its ok cause its not dialogue from a 1940s movie,
even if that is what it sounds like to me, even
after I turn the movie off, with dialogue written
by William Faulkner, or not: you can't believe
everything you read, or so my brother used to say,
or was it my sister?  They were all so full of wisdom
it's taken fifty years to figure that out and
I still don't believe one bit in autobiography,
even if that is all that is available.
Or listen to Dr. Williams: "—since we know nothing, pure /
and simple, beyond / our own complexities."
Available, that is, in the place of talking with other people
and not being understood.  Not that being understood
is the be all and end all of anything at all
on another rainy day that takes the place
of what ought to be winter in a place that doesn't have a winter
in the first place, not one that you could recognize anyway.
Not a language you would recognize anyway in the end.

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