For Wallace
Stevens, it was “a glass of water,” where reality expands into a metaphysical
domain where a lion comes down to drink with “frothy jaws.” With me, a broken
cup in the alley is witness to a night of debauchery. The Canton policeman
makes his rounds so that truth is not denied him. Hearsay are not pointers to
“things in themselves” as names do not reveal the inner essence of being.
Language is a mere model of the reality we can only know given the limitations
of models.
When I see in the
melancholy sunshine the compound that is the nursing home, the Greenwood
neighborhood seems like a surreal scene with comic book features. I know this
is the time to transmute experience into poem, as something more lasting, into
literature, a messy and rich depiction of reality or the things in themselves.
There is stillness like lake water when sound disappears to let the brain quiet
down so the soul can seek rest. This is the time for compassion. Dementia will
erase us all.
No comments:
Post a Comment