A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Because the trip was no less important than the getting there.
Because the building-up was marred by the tearing-down.
Each in its own way calls for commitment.
In an age of passivity who will take responsibility
for the meaning of the text: the songs and rhythms of the times,
the hope, that maybe the solution will find its way back to us?
Time strings us along, takes it out on us, who are
already taking it out on ourselves.
Fear is part of the struggle, the inability to pull back
from the politics of meaning in order to smash through meaning
and discover what lies on the other side. There it is,
you say, sitting on the outskirts, like stars and gasses.
The idea is not to try to make sense, but let sense saunter in
through the doors and windows of the writing down.
Because you want to get with the program
while the lankiness of the times wants to leave you
behind, scratching your image off the cold floorboards
an amalgam once, like heated metal.
The mind is a tired animal, it sulks in the dark
getting mileage out of the words;
hoping against hope they will not betray it.
Copyright 2019 Susan Sonde