The narrator knowing the spinning
of the world appeared to know that we’d been lacking
a boyfriend on the rebound, a chance to memorialize
or address the issues in a rather open
imagining than between a rotating
of dampened sun screened principalities.
The interpretation circles back to an
unexpected monsoon. Slowly a repetition builds.
A monsoon kisses the little homes of children.
This is the point when someone turns off the projector
and that’ll stop the circling. But it rains repeatedly
in torrents over the roofs and leaves, over
the children’s homes and turning
the fish who breath periodically
above the stream’s smooth boulders.
There is a moment while the character in the circle circles.
3 comments:
Huh! I am like the circle from the famous Shel Silverstein book, “The Missing Peice” Listen, repetitious nonsense is the essence of modern poetry. It works.
It makes you sound academic and artsy at the same time. Who believes a monsoon kisses anything? And why do the children live in little homes, is this a place with no adults? Right. I believe that.
Who am I supposed to feel for?
As far as “the fish who breath periodically”, it sounds more like a common lungfish to me. Sounds sort of aqua-man-ish.
You hit the nail right on the head with your interpretation.
That was exactly what I was going for.
Papo, thanks for adding to the hits my site gets. You have been doing your work, brother ... Saw Martin Espada at Lowell Poetry Festival ... shook his hand, but there were too many "hangers on" to talk to him ... I like the guy, but I'm no sycophant.
Post a Comment