four poemspoem

(1 comment)
May 14, 2002

Objects
My life is my hand
The whorls of my fingers...
a prayerbook,
or a map-

My hand, my life, holds a novel,
pages smelling of the book's history;
words smelling of the book's birth-

textured like green polished stones

Found Art
He is brilliant, yes, but evil. So evil I
despair of comprehending him. This man
doesn't want to murder his father and
possess his mother: he wants to murder God
and posess the cosmos.

Echo
All voices told me "no"
a chorus with the tides
like a mute echo-
echo, first hope
of sun and dirt
a single hope
set in the cliff-face
written in ancient script
chisled with tools
of steel sinew muscle
bone clay stone flesh
fire

There is nothing more to be said
There is nothing,
more to be said.

There is...
nothing more to be said

--things I wrote in my poetry class with Peter Richards at Tufts University (found on a dot matrix printout) Not sure what I think of them now...a bit gimmicky maybe. "Found Art" was taken verbatim from a Usenet post, later I used it as the basis for Unspoken, you can see some other things I've written as well.