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Ode to Structure
| Critical Analysis #2 |
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Ode to Structure |
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Astro Member
since 2003-01-08
Posts 69Ca. |
Ode on Structure Inside the collapsed heap of brick, Beside these separated parts Placed in skewed arrangements -- collage Encased in a cage of red brick, Soft moans lift like ghosts of curling smoke, Scoffed and bruised by Gravity’s abuse, And, upon settling to scattered Sand, acquiesce to fade like spent smoke. Silence nestles until hunger Hints at the emptiness within --Without. Angry rumblings stutter, Shout! with such ferocious hunger. Silent as a blue-jays nest at night Now rent with squawking at dawn’s delight --Drums that roll in remembrance of sight Some voiceless soldiers saw in the night. Gossamery solace, these marred Memories provide. Of substance, Sustenance, there is naught but lives Lanced -- flesh irreparably marred; Flesh, that, even now in marbled green Mesh, is fetid and reeks of decay, Does seem animate still, with bitter Buzz; the din of dimness, glowing green. Those remnant survivors writhe with Woes of both body and soul, trapped Tangled, entwined with the mauled, Mangled dead and mortar joined with. Concrete accomplishments lie fallen, Faux feat of Atlantean forte, Financial planning, doctors, suites of Substantial penthouse people -- fallen. By that cinder, those splintered blocks, Bisected by torso in twain, Toddler pieces grasp the steel once Soldered into pink playtime blocks. Pink cheeks are turning pale, like lifeless Links of gray chain. The spectre of hope, Haughty in fleeting, trails stench – a black Body that is bloated and lifeless. Sounding from the lush black, pulsing, Pounding periodically like Lazy heartbeats, a haunting and Hazy thing is forming – pulsing. Pebbles crumble down like retreating Rebels, falling back from the front lines, Lichen pushed back by the blue tide; some Stricken rock from the shore retreating. Blind for so long; the radiance Reminds that sight is an always Awful beginning, as children Coddle themselves in radiance Of a thousand fractured prisms. Light: Lovely proud strands of sweet-salted tears That pour forth for the fractured and the Flat, the cold of night and blinding light, Tears that are spent for the yawning Years and cold crimes committed in Cruel moments; tears that take joy in Jewels -- that wail for wounds still yawning. Iron caged bars snap open, ripped wide From their concrete enclosures outside The burning sirens wail with mouths wide. Inside, clovers line this massive grave. The bustle about masquerades As some passing thought, not as grave. Stacking bricks Collapsing bricks Removing bricks If anyone has read this far, I commend you! This is a difficult poem but it was a labor of love.The meter was insane! Is the meaning too enigmatic? Sight is an always awful beginning |
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