The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Charles Tarlton
[un piano dans les Alpes]
What do you get for a boy poet,
if not a lyre made from a turtle shell?
Under the suffocating furred roar
of the world, a whisper, a red whisper
and the pitch of his complaint rose higher
against the silence
and he mouthed his insults, blood curses
softly was all that was required.
Was there meant to be a break
right here? Were we expecting to imagine
the lost, the abandoned thread,
where it might have led? I can barely
hear it, and the longer and deeper
I am getting in here, the fainter grow
the options. It was the image of a boy
poet, what he might have to say. Oh.
What he might have to say; what he
might have to say — what he might have
to say, what he might have to say. Just say
something, to keep it going along
(don’t talk that way, don’t talk about
the poem in the poem!) There was a baby
bird or a tortured Jew calling upon God,I heard it and it was my own cry.
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