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A
Alobar
Mar 25, 2008 ⭐ View statistics (Premium feature)

Odd

                                    For Kurt. 

it arrived today

shod in a cardboard box

 

it felt like a folded-up life

 

it said “Chapters” in big, black letters

my name

my address, much smaller

 

it didn’t weigh very much

and yet

like i said

it felt like a folded-up life

 

odd

that i felt so emotional

 

there was the brutal finality

of course

but he was just another new yorker i didn’t know

just another dead new yorker i didn’t know

 

like i said

odd

 

i paused before i tore open the box

paused and looked out the window:

 
            Springtime

            Our equinox just passed

            It has excited

            The air

            Given it life and an

            Overwhelming feeling that

            Everything again can be

            Sane

 

 

i smiled, warmed and alive

and opened the small box

brought out the contents from inside

and held it in my hands for the very first time

 

“this will never happen again,” i thought

looking at the white cover—

            black letters, red letters

            and a crude and famous drawing—

“never again will i hold his words in my hands

new and fresh like spring; i must treasure this moment….”

 

i looked out the window again

as evening began to arrive

and smiled gingerly:

 

            Saffron-coloured sky

            Out my window

            Indigo clouds climbing the horizon

            Their darkness

            Giving a sense

            Of

            Eloquence and

            Satirical understanding.







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Country/Region: CAN

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Comments

weirdelf

weirdelf

18 years 1 month ago

odd, your feedback is superb

But this sounded like a whingy letter rejection to me. I must admit, I have not read all your poetry, but I do understand your feelings. Will check out the rest of your poetry, with respect, Jess
A

Alobar

18 years 1 month ago

I’ve been giving some

I've been giving some thought to your comments on "Odd" At first I found them, well, odd, but then I thought on. I thought about what I was trying to do with the poem, which was to eulogize a favoured dead author but to hint at homage as well. Then I thought of our other heated exchange about post-modernism. A light bulb went on, blinded me and I'm still seeing spots. This is a post-modern poem, of course you hate it. There is no way you could do else wise. I could now go on and defend it and explain it, why I chose this, why I did that and blah blah blah. Nothing would be gained, either by me the poet, nor you the reader. It simply does not appeal to you. There will be no constructive criticism I can use, and I will not be able to sway you to my (dark) side. It is just one of those things. Now, as to my other poetry. It is not all post-modern. I have been experimenting with a variety of styles. Many of them I will not be subjecting this fine form to, that would be far too cruel. The sonnet for instance--now there is a poem I will never be able to write! But I would be interested to hear what your very intriguing mind--I've been following your comments to others, stalker that I am--might have to say about my other work. The purpose of this site is to become a better poet, to write better poems, and to improve on existing ones. I very much look forward to hearing what you have to say about my other work (should you deem it worthy). And of course I will continue to watch your postings, and contribute where I can.... Looking forward, Mike