酷我-北美枫

[星子]

Public Place

Wandering wordless through the heat of High
Park. High summer. Counting the chipmunks
who pause and demand the scrub stand by
till their flitty, piggybacked equal signs can think
through this math of dogwood, oak-whip, mulch.
Children glue mouths to ice cream and chips, punch
and kick at the geese, while rug-thick islands
of milt-like scum sail the duckpond’s copper stillness –
Over-fat, hammerhead carp with predator brains...
We can wreck a day on the shoals of ourselves.
Cramped, you broke last night and wept at the war,
at the ionized, cobalt glow that fish-tanked the air.
We’re here to be emptied under the emptying sky,
eyes cast outward, trolling for the extraordinary.


© 2001, Ken Babstock
From: Days into Flatspin
Publisher: Anansi, Toronto, 2001
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[[ANNA]]

Public Place

Wandering wordless through the heat of High
Park. High summer. Counting the chipmunks
who pause and demand the scrub stand by
till their flitty, piggybacked equal signs can think
through this math of dogwood, oak-whip, mulch.
Children glue mouths to ice cream and chips, punch
and kick at the geese, while rug-thick islands
of milt-like scum sail the duckpond’s copper stillness –
Over-fat, hammerhead carp with predator brains...
We can wreck a day on the shoals of ourselves.
Cramped, you broke last night and wept at the war,
at the ionized, cobalt glow that fish-tanked the air.
We’re here to be emptied under the emptying sky,
eyes cast outward, trolling for the extraordinary.


© 2001, Ken Babstock
From: Days into Flatspin
Publisher: Anansi, Toronto, 2001
_________________

[星子]

Besides I found these very very interesting comments.

http://poetryreviews.ca/2006/06/29/airstream-land-yacht-by-ken-babstock/

(very original and bold comments.)
_________________

[[ANNA]]

Besides I found these very very interesting comments.

http://poetryreviews.ca/2006/06/29/airstream-land-yacht-by-ken-babstock/

(very original and bold comments.)
_________________

[ericcoliu]

You can read this poem as a "prose poem" because of its rhyming scheme and its elision of the boundaries of genre by combining prose and poetry.
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Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul

[[ericcoliu]]

You can read this poem as a "prose poem" because of its rhyming scheme and its elision of the boundaries of genre by combining prose and poetry.
_________________
Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul