Sometimes I dream in Spanish,
an impression in my pillow.
Here I am a passenger
of my inner thoughts,
the tallest voice
in a village constructed
from bricks of my past.
I bite into fragile fruit
stolen from mute wasps
and sit in my guilt
with voices like fingernails
to pick at my neck.
Their words are my island’s
and I am the stranger,
chaotic with verbs
and letters of sleep.
Flight from Frankfurt
His head is buried
in Aldous Huxley;
his feet are buried
in twelve buckle leather boots.
Huxley is open
at page 23;
his right boot is open
from toe to instep.
Huxley in paperback;
sole in loose-leaf.
4 comments:
Like the couplets and images in first poem.
Billy
Thanks Billy Joe.
I really liked the wasps and fruit! and I thought, too, of the lyrical licks in the second - so much so that I barely noticed the description, until it was complete - both nice pieces, and thanks, Gordon, for them.
PG
"Sometimes I Dream in Spanish" touched something in me: I sometimes dream in French. Have a rough draft of a poem about it. Being me, my French dreams are a bit drug fueled and nightmarish, filled with beauty. (I forgot this is about your poems not mine. I am solipsistic: sorry.) As I love books, I love the mention of one in the second poem. I love puns. I know in the English language they are looked down upon...but in the French language they are respected (as they were in the past in the English language)...So I have no choice but to read Sole/Soul. Thank you for the poems. I'm manic, spending the day drinking coffee, reading L.A.G. Strong’s "The Sacred River" a study of James Joyce. My prolixity will be the death of me. Thank God I never talk to people in person or on the phone. I would drive them mad. I am motivated to think and feel by your poems. Thanks for writing them. Joseph Hargraves
Post a Comment