The Generator

The rush of a warm Sanibel eve,

hum of a white metallic generator.

I tap with a curving branch I saved,

let it fall at the base of the cinderblock steps.

The steps cut up and veer

above my head,

six times my height.

I think of an illusion,

the medieval flight that only rises,

the snake that eats its tail and disappears.

Good thing the lizard in 220 ran right out of his-

we'd cornered him behind the straw chair,

I lunged and it came clean off as he shot straight

under the curtain with the barrier reef.

 

The moan of the ocean melds with the

wanes and surges of the breeze, so the

fine gray gravel's crunch and

scrape of the cement is but an

afterthought in dusk's cacophony.

I think I better duck under the rusting arch,

past a brown crisscrossed gate that keeps

those from wandering through the crypt of beams and sand,

who would.

I strain, can almost hear the breath of someone sleeping.

I hurry out into the roar of night,

rustling mice and buzzing insects,

flickering lights and swaying palms.

I step up on the worn old planks that separate the land from sea, and

look out into the sprawl of darkened bay.

A horn of some distant freighter.

The rustle of some leaves, or wings of a great nesting bird.

The far-off laugher from a party yacht,

or the audience in some TV.

The waves make it hard to hear the cars, to hear

my parents calls for me to come and rinse for dinner.

The wind drowns the brass at the buffet,

the clatter of cutlery on porcelain.

The crack and gush of a spilled bowl of punch.

The hum of the generator, as I

head back from the sea and

climb the flight of steps.

Reviews

[JenniferMarie]

I really liked this poem. Great images.

[The Representative]

To "figure out" the poem. That's now more what I'm averse to.


To just take what you see in front of you - to just take what you can, and not allow the experience to make you feel under-served.



Another great demonstration of imagination.

[Thaddius]

thank you as always, representative. this one more a conflation of memory aided by imagination... perhaps that's all imagination is anyway. figuring it out is poison to experiencing it, as you say. It's a great lesson of my life

[The Representative]

You can call me Thomas - I only used the name Representative out of the deepest of possible affections.


It's not in fact anything to do with how art should be experienced - it's the reaction to life, and it's being nothing more than repetition, and so the repetition of disenchantment.


I'm still waiting, for some audience, with The Representative:

Still just that first reader. Still, just that one person, whoever they may be, who will commit themselves to looking at the entire presentation (that's what TR is, by and large, a not in fact traditional narrative but absolute first-of-a-kind literary presentation - you've seen the opening of it, so you know what I mean) and finally speak back to me what it is - still, just that first of times.


Day after day, life's repeatedly throwing at me the things I could neither care less about or just find just repulsive; just once, if it could just give me what it is that I actually want - a human being other than myself being finally fully aware of The Representative.


Thaddius....your someone who deserves being indulged.

[Thaddius]

Well why don't you send me the whole thing

[The Representative]

It's been self-published, on Lulu, now for almost about two months: it's this that I'm waiting for - after family, a first of persons to purchase it.


Lists of people have been informed about it; people on this site, people who live relatively close by - just people who regularly I'm acquainted with, in whatever capacity.

[The Representative]

Fancy a trade - do you currently have something on retail, a work of fiction of your own perhaps?

[The Representative]

I feel the desire to add something...


That reality's repetition, determines all of how we are. What guides me through time, is often keeping my mind conscious of the actual around me:

The tree, that's there the exact same as the week before, unchanged.


The knowledge, that however time deals with me, eventually, the sun will still be having its beautiful sunset, regardless of how I've passed through the time getting there.


That reality, is all repetition - it's this awareness that guides me.

[Thaddius]

Its a comforting thought. The spaces and ages that are forgone, far off... they are still humming, there's still laughter, the same old rusted scenes. In the forest, trees are always falling. One of my earliest poems on here, 'Hidden Places', involves this... I'm actually headed to that hidden place right now, leaving for the airport shortly. I wonder what made you think of all that?

No, I won't do a trade. I wouldn't pay for anything, and I fear that you have provided too brief a sample to garner any real interest from consumers. Besides, a trade would defeat your purpose: you want someone to buy it out of genuine appreciation. Since they wouldn't know what they were buying, it would have to be faith. I'd suggest a humbler goal: to truly move someone with your work. That's a lot more telling than a few dollars. Best

[The Representative]

That was a reply I liked. I respect your response, especially on the trade front - sincerely, Thaddius, you are someone of substance, and weight.


You ask, what prompted the thought........to be completely candid, it came real easy:

The references to nature, were just clichés; it's second nature I suppose to choose the aspect of the "natural world" when wanting to be particularly expressive, or philosophical.


Time passes, constantly, however reality never changes - a state, honestly, which can be too brutal to bear, so torturous on the mind. To have to face incessant continuance, incessant development - to never be able to experience a state of 'permanence'.


In terms of The Representative, let me put it to you like this....


The saying, 'there's something in it for everyone' - you've of course heard this, haven't you:


Everything, in The Representative is for everyone!!



The link, between status and power. The link, between a father and a daughter.....just talking in a nutshell, The Representative is about these two things at a final of levels.


The setting of The Representative, the story situation of The Representative, the politics of The Representative, the emotion of The Representative - quite sincerely, all of it's at the deepest and final of levels.


It's it - it's absolutely the text (not book, not story, but text) whose power is eternal. (And devastating, to an entire worldwide political status quo).



Time is long - reality's free for the making up, and it's a battle worth fighting for:

How people, across the globe get to the spend their ocean of time that nature's given them.


Thank you, for that reply - enjoy your trip, wherever it is your actually going.

[Eve Ola]

you sketched so beautifully. I enjoyed that part the most
I hurry out into the roar of night,
rustling mice and buzzing insects,
flickering lights and swaying palms.

Overall its great. keep it up

[Thaddius]

thanks very much, it really is a sketch. I wrote it as prose and then just spaced it out haha

[Rene Salinas]

The descriptive nature of the telling makes you create a very specific image so an island where things seems lived. And as you continue sharing you let us know of the object which also becomes the subject as you decided to give the generator centre stage and so it goes perceieving, bringing memories all subtle and at imes old which then are interrupted by he island life. And you seem like a passer by picking up what is infront you. Not sure if you inteded the melancholy but I sense it not a disturbing one though.

It is an endearing feeling.

Thankyou for the invite Thaddius

[Thaddius]

yes, it's nostalgia. I didn't know or plan the generator, it just bubbled up out of my brain, and picking the title is always an organic and almost immediate process after it's finished. Looking in from the outside into this poem, or speculating on the 'black box' of subconscious, as a great writer, Haruki Murakami calls it, I guess that the generator itself is a generator of memories, of joy and the loss of childhood. It's a persistent buzzing, like the roaring of the sea. One is refreshing and the other is perhaps a bit aggravating. perhaps this nature vs artifice parallel is my way of looking at both sides of the nostalgia coin, either recalling the old times fondly or lamenting them for their departure

[Dulce]

Wow! You are really a great poet Thaddius!