single heartedly

 

 

 

Melvillean

Ishmael, loosing himself in fumes and

dark nights, became inverted

suddenly, with "no compass

before me to steer by". Like

heroin or a love-jones. Or any boundless,

simultaneousness. Sheila

threw herself to the wall-eye

of the river out of love,

out of life ashore

without it's constant

palindrorme. That same

year I wrote poems about her

until her body had drifted

under the waves

and her memory

ran back to me like

the brilliant speech I gave

at graduation. The one about

hope and long lives and bones.

Drugs and love are so terribly

addictive, one would think.

 

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

The bad part about being Ishmael is that your Ahabs are always their own things, and beyond your control. The piece, especially lines twelve through twenty, is very powerful, and walks the tightrope of too emotional cf. overly controlled like a Wallenda. This is fine, fine work.

[Marie Anzalone]

Haven't we all drifted those seas, dana, lost without the compass... dare I say even wondering if those who went before us weren't the lucky ones? I am reminded often of Einstein's words about there only being two ways to live: as if everything were a miracle, or as if nothing were. But I think maybe that is too simplistic? We delve and scrape together the miracles to keep the dream alive, knowing full-well that no matter how many platitude we tell ourselves or are told, that no, there are NO guarantees. And somehow we have to wake up every day and reconcile that fact with enough hope to keep going on. Some days are obviously easier than others, I fear.

My heart goes out to you today for the reading of this, my friend.

[K. Louis]

have you had too much? This is sad..or maybe I was already.

[Lydia Shutter]

Your poetry is often like a journal entry....and makes me want to know more about your life! I liked the Moby Dick reference. We are who we were in high school...and so it shall ever be. Good reminscing in this one. I liked it. Lydi**