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A development occurred.
Rock grew skin,
Water learned to breathe,
Scurrying things
Acquired the art of speech
And murder;
Our world seemed unlikely:
An elliptical ball
Repetitiously circling
In a place not defined.
We wondered why
Our eyes had opened here.
We knew nothing,
Not even whether
To count blessings
Or heap up bitterness.
Imprisoned in monkey thought
We lined up
On sodden branches,
Longing to have
Every thing while
Spending our days
Throwing nuts
At birds
Fabulous, Henning.
I love this!
I’d love to hear you read it.
I used to read my poems, years ago, at the Gate’s Head Theatre, London. Seems like a lifetime ago and it probably is. It was a great scene, I once ran into Dario Fo in the bar downstairs, he had a huge beard and we drank pints of beer. Franca Rama was there too, she had written a piece about her abduction by right-wing thugs – so disturbing that I had to run outside to vomit. Franca gave me a hug afterwards, I’ll never forget it, what an amazing woman.
Those were the days… I think?
Wait.
Nostalgia and vomit.
Let me repeat that a few times and I’m sure it will work, Henning.
Sharply phrased but yes, nostalgia is rubbish, repainted memory.
Better to be clear:
“What are days? Days are things we live in…” (Philip Larkin)
I still like Franca Rama a lot, though.
One of my favorite quotes is one from Philip Larkin:
“ Our flesh surrounds us with its own decisions.”
Good, huh, Henning?
Larkin always hit the nail on the head, but he was a freak… read his biography recently, what a sad old bleeder he was…
Thanks for commenting… otherwise there seems to be a creepy silence in the poetry section…
great imagery. i love when poems put me there. thanks, mr. koch. nice poem.