For a while, I was fascinated with Gerard Manley Hopkins's concept of "inscape." I spent a lot of time and effort constructing verse that somehow represented inner turmoil or peace or whatever, many times casting those "sound engines" as internal lanscapes to be explored--or, in some cases, avoided or even escaped. The title of this poem is the most obvious nod in the direction of Hopkins, the contents an attempt to follow his twisting path.
No thoughts that would be
of interest to being--
to holding up days skylit
and raw snapped off by
dread winds and apple-crisp
air--are slicing through
the chunk of things now.
The quaint endings of
fired interest that're
supposed to jolt care
about like are lined up,
thick and heaving, to
sketch out definitions of
what I'm supposed to be:
Be cool cat, be tweedy
firm, be alive for
technical purposes only,
awkward outlines on
bedside notepad, cancerous,
delicious, scalding clear...
Be What! There's not much
lasting about those splintered
nights with the warmth of
a Maureen O'Hara handshake
or a sidewise smile well
nerved. The point of
moving past people who
see animation assuming
spark is there just slaps
at where I'm not now--
where there always seems to
pop those windows breathing
darker shades I dig with
shredded nails to taste,
flipping up happy dampness
undemanded for thought.
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