Let the Mystery Be

[rowens]

There's nothing in the window
that could prepare
the child outside the head,
the cat is not
what the newborn thinks,
crouching there, an arched black
soft foreignness erecting a smile
warm in invisible;
the kind of present
forgiveness makes
is not extant
in the very era
and every happenstance, midday, salted
conversation; the mouth and all
the senses once lunged
are not deleted, - outside
the head is a future bride.

[Kerbonzo_beenz]

What do you think this poem is about?

Your writing style may be too advanced for me to understand without a helpful whisper.

[rowens]

I don't think much. I'm a simple man.
They say, write what you know, and I don't.

I want lunged to be pronounced in connection with lung.
Lunged, and lung-ed. Why?
Just one of those things.
And invisible is a noun of vagueness. The vague presence I had as a kid.

Those two things xed my mind, reading the poem.

[TranquillityBase]

They say, write what you know, and I don't.

This poem is a challenge but also a charm.

[rowens]

I know what the poem is about. But who am I to tell you?

There's a song. If my computer worked, I'd post it.
I figured I'd be used to a southern accent, being an accent myself. But the woman singing thrills me. And I love her facial expressions. It all goes together.
This poem has little to do with the song. But I've been using that song to set a lot of moods lately.

[TranquillityBase]

I know what the poem is about. But who am I to tell you?

Meaning inevitably escapes me.  I praised to the skies a poem on another site, called The Red Kite.  I thought it was about the things you fly with a string when the winds are strong.  It was about a bird.  

But I don't really care.  It makes more sense now which in a way is a disappointment.  So I guess I do care.

I'm only happy when I've got a mystery in my hands, preferably a mystery made out of words.

[Mark A Becker]

Hey rowens,
Been awhile since I've seen you around these parts.  Though this is MISC, a few comments:

There's nothing in the window
that could prepare
the child outside the head,  his head? her head? their head? its head?  This line threw me off
the cat is not
what the newborn thinks,
crouching there, an arched black
soft foreignness erecting a smile
warm in invisible;    You may need this line, but I don't

The kind of present
forgiveness makes
is not extant
in the very era 
and every happenstance, midday, salted  I don't need this part either 
conversation; the mouth and all
the senses once lunged
are not deleted- outside
the head is a future bride.  I see the repetition of "outside the head", and it works here, but not earlier, even though the end refers back to the beginning.

I imagine it's known to you what ties the parts together, but it's very unclear to me, other than alluding to the external world "outside the head."

Good to see that you remain an enigma,
Mark

[rowens]

The second two lines you crossed out are negations anyway.

Often I prefer not to refer to anything knowledgeable.

[Wjames]

I know what the poem is about. But who am I to tell you?

There's a song. If my computer worked, I'd post it.
I figured I'd be used to a southern accent, being an accent myself. But the woman singing thrills me. And I love her facial expressions. It all goes together.
This poem has little to do with the song. But I've been using that song to set a lot of moods lately.

I posted this song in the What Are you Listening to Thread last August - glad to have (maybe) provided some inspiration. Someone in the thread said it was the gayest thing they had ever seen, which I found funny (I think a mod deleted the comment which is too bad, it just showed their idiocy). Iris Dement's voice is singular and beautiful.



http://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-17687-page-34.html

I enjoyed reading this, Rowens. To anyone wondering what it's about, look at the title.

[rowens]

Thank you.

Sorry, I in fact didn't catch your post of this song. But this is the very video I was mentioning.