skepsis, or: writing what i bloody well want to

“the poem dreams of being written without the pronoun ‘I’.” - Harper

The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.

Daedalus’s epical form. Pound always strived for epic. From the self, to the others.

“the poem is a space” - Sacks

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

Pound’s space. As described by E. Bishop. From talkative, to cruel to tedious to wretched, as Pound shifts, so does the space, and so does the world, from round to flat.

“poetry negotiates the edges” - Sacks

But Crow Crow
Crow nailed them together,
Nailing Heaven and earth together

So man cried, but with God’s voice.
And God bled, but with man’s blood.
…
The agony did not diminish.
Man could not be man nor God God
The agony
Grew.
Crow
Grinned
Crying: ‘This is my Creation’

Crow negotiates the edges.