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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HILBERT'S PROGRAM, by MILO DE ANGELIS First Line: We fell on the chair | |||
I We fell on the chair through a mistaken movement of the pen clinging to grace, our tobacco-stained grace. We fell on the balcony where they threw salt. Ultraearthly, a substance joined to the egg scrutinizes the last days of oxygen. II On the right our signature turning against us. On the left a sirvente with a dry-point: "your daughter, alive, will assume the soul of mine, who is dying." The dancers call us in the body below, they have a silence and a turning pencil of grass in the tall pencil. III Interior shelves, full of objects, collapse in the bank. I see that scene again: the dumbstruck people, the fast ones, the corners and the scorching wire, strange rondo of a word at the climax of light and throat "every pine tree...every pine...stop, you are amid yourself..." IV Thus we made ours the remorse of every thief; suspected, we lived on incense behind the crystal in the gynaeceum we stare at the absolute middle of a thing, a nutriment repeated for decades, enclosed in the marrow gathering on the ground fortune-telling leaflets, little boxes for cats which even when open set a limit for us. V The elevator cables sway, every thing is divided into memory and mandrake. First the dance with the snow. Then the processions of repose like a masterpiece whence to venture out barefoot. "In the water whoever is silent isn't forgiven." In the hour of a notebook, I answered, if they were called there, it was for some serious hell, a literary game suicides sometimes play. How many canteens given away as presents before drowning, how much earth spread on the pillow! VI I squeezed the idea hard: and then marriage, I rushed up to the fifth floor: and then I heard. You were saying: goodbye passions of hallucinated life, I want to light a lamp, to wake up here, to feel soft steps over my hands. The day is that woman who nurses against the wall, that zen leaning. You were saying: I looked at the part in my hair, I turned back to the oil lamp, for the sages. We children, we pine needles. VII "The water doesn't come back here, you find it again in a throat." At every turn of the earth, the same face. No fissure is as deep as those wrinkles. "Yes, you can exchange my life for yours, if you want." Head-sail, I called you. On an old slipway you still sleep, stagger a little, draw nine and a half meters with a free body. Harsh begging is the sign of twins...the migrating daughter, the taciturn one from the hills: then the pollen entered the dead and a supper appeared in the dark, with friends. She was there again, in December, and it was the same one, we could recognize her. Used by permission of Story Line Press. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTINUOUS TIME by MILO DE ANGELIS FINITE INTUITION by MILO DE ANGELIS IN THE LUNGS by MILO DE ANGELIS PROTECT ME, MY TALISMAN by MILO DE ANGELIS ROWING IN FAMILIAR JANUARY by MILO DE ANGELIS THE NARRATOR by MILO DE ANGELIS |
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