the girl with the metal hip

for electra

 

 

 

i have a friend who had her hip replaced

and now makes a quail sound thru her teeth,

you may know the sound as phenomena, when

one see's something dreadful or reads those lovely

Hafiz poems while sitting on a curb with empty

styrofoam cups of regular drip coffee, the wail

of a full set of dentures making squares or rectangles

on a dry tabletop, that zouk live African rhythm

that drum beat,

       drum beat

for the homeless as you try so damn hard to run

away or not look, the same way red ribbons are

awarded with appropriate words to those who

stumble over marks in the dirt and then

catch their brreath beyond the margin of arbor day,

a tree revise where the bark is arranged

contrary to wind or direction so the worms

that ate the wood in 2011 can now know flavor

from exibition. too run over for trees? we stood

and burned candles under the night of Fenemore Cooper

then wished our empty selves Indians who knew

space & eternity from Episcopal prophecy.

the turn, turn of magazines devoted to reviews

and essays of apocalyptic writings, mostly of the

new testament, where divine inspiration reveals

itself at the window or in the movement of the

curtain, or in the burst face of the down boy who

sees animals as events and then runs all over the

room tearing apart his tissue, revealing the route to

sainthood. I have been told, there are people who

just can't believe in God without a book of hymnals

or a fan inscribed by the local funeral home.

 

There's an angel in my room. Electra. Just off the

train from jupiter, who has memorized  Ecclesiastes

just as was foretold; we have confessed our

eternal faith, our wisdom to eachother

as our Shibboleth protects

our wishes from our dreams.

 

She has cleaned the house and

flavored it with spruce. Come forth

stalactite girl,

hanging from the room of string.

Come forth and strike the foot forcibly

down with your metal hip replaced,

then make that overlapping pattern

of true love with that duck drip

of your diabetic heel.

Reviews

[just_teague]

What first seemed like discursive content was palatable after some digestion,but I practically made a study of this writing! One comment I just want to make before I jump in: I appreciate that you alluded to Hafiz, and after reading your work here I can see you take his work to heart.

Overall, I love how you sifted through your memory and senses, as you describe a range of phenomena in search of some pattern or high order. One note I scrawled on myself while reading was "Theological impact." You've done a good job with this.

There was a jarring moment after "Too run over for trees?" where it's most readily apparent that you've switched directly into personal experience, rather than the metaphorical instances of your first lines. Your subject drastically switched from then on. This is also a part when I as a reader, and as the audience, achieve self-awareness in your poem, being openly addressed and ripped from the narrative. In this way I’m inclined to believe your experiences are suddenly my own, which is a strange feeling because the "We" used was exclusive. Another allusion here; are you in some kind of dead poet society? I've never met anyone else to burn candles for Fenemore Cooper. It also seems to me that you're seeing "God" or some equivalent in your life, disguised as the line between mundane and phenomena. At least, you are looking in unlikely places for that same order you wish to understand.

You second stanza(?) seems to address the divine directly. Is Electra an arbitrary name? The "She" mentioned is ambiguous, so I flitter back and forth between deciding whether the angel is your friend with the metal hip, or another entity altogether.

Your poem seems to take on a character of searching for coherency in these phenomena you experience, and runs through lists looking for order through your world. But within that you've folded in some keen insight, the last two lines of your first stanza being a strong example.

Maybe this review isn’t exactly helpful to you, but I want to make sure I’m understanding it in the right way. But to be perfectly honest there was also a lot I didn’t understand here, and it took me a long time grasping at your words. I can only make loose interpretations, and of course, I’m left with questions. I don’t think any poet really enjoys explaining the smaller points in writing though, so for now I’m content to let these thoughts percolate. This was a great read, and a very well thought out piece. It was completely worth my time trying to analyze it. Thanks so much!

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlande..]

we gotta start invading the dreams of our leaders, whispering words like these in their ears as they sleep, not for them to memorize or repeat, mind you..they just need to tremble, and I don't care if they're trembling like me when I read them when they hear them...anyway, I don't know where my off shoot s**t comes from really, but you went out there pretty far on this one, even for you and I f*****g love it...this poem I liken to waking up with a prostitute in my arms who I didn't screw, as if I woke up for a minute to watch her sleep and closed my eyes as she kissed my cheek and walked away, not too worried about my wallet or valuables..I wouldn't open my eyes to look at her a*s or to protect my things, because to open my eyes would be to gouge them, like that turtle who replaced Peter's eyeglasses with forks on family guy...ok, that review needed some levity on the way out...yeah, this one's affected me..great stuff..your work is better than going to starbucks with a supermodel under each arm

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

some of the references are way over my head, but the overall effect is no less enjoyable or profound or accessible..the essence hits you right in the mind chakra like a bulls eye

[Shmoke-Sifted Heftlander]

well, not way over..I can get pretty close

[Emily B]

i am so glad that you are a poet, always good to read you