23 October, 2014

An Explanatory Poem (of Sorts)

My Eyes, the World

I cannot really listen to Sgt. Pepper’s.
I don’t know how to start a conversation.
How, to me, means how.
No, I can’t imagine another way.

Notwithstanding preconceptions
About cognition, I think that shirt
Is awful. And fMRI would affirm,
By rainbow butterfly Rorschachs,

That things work differently in here.
Everything hidden is a palimpsest for beauty.
Forget the garden, the dance, your manners —
We’ll hide together under large sculptures,

Caressing the delicate flowers
Of our ears, and think
At each other, How lucky I am!
How terribly, terribly lucky.

* * * * *

Poetry as self-justification. And why not? It’s tempting to offer you an anecdote about the creation of this poem, the way I do for all the others that get posted here, but I’m not going to because I’m stubborn and, in this case, I think it would detract from, rather than add to, what I’ve written.

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Lacking computer access of any kind, Byron cannot respond to your comments but is relayed them and appreciates your kind remarks.