The Retreats of Thought: Poems


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Matt Coonan - "Hangover Thoughts" (CUPSI 2015)

Search GO. But ah!

Fooling Around with Poems Archives - Barbara Abercrombie

Lines Future goals do not inspire the poet, but a longing for the unattainable past. The only way to return to this purity is through death. Shoots could refer to rays of heavenly light or shoots of a blossoming plant. Lines Symbolism—The poet longs to return to the purity before his fall. His life has stretched too far and too deeply into sin.

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Look for the following to find shifts: 1. Key words but, yet, however, although 2. Punctuation dashes, periods, colons, ellipsis 3. Stanza division 4. Changes in line or stanza length or both 5. Irony sometimes irony hides shifts 6. Effect of structure on meaning 7. Changes in sound rhyme may indicate changes in meaning 8.

Poems - Ghost in the House

Examine the title again, this time on an interpretive level. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like this: Like Loading Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:. Email required Address never made public. Name required. And how there is always something else. Up close four different brown retreating furls just now [being forced to forward-break] re- entering themselves.

Each tripping over each as they are also forced into retreat. What is force? My love is forced from me as in retreat from love. My gaze is forced back into me as it retreats from thought. Also the momentary lull: which now lets in the sound of distance in itself: where your eye might look up, further out: to where, it seems, nothing but steady forward progress in its perfect time occurs: onward, onward: tiny patterns which seen from above, must: it is imagined: perfectly: shine.

I am a frequency, current flies through. One has to ride the spine. No piece [of mind] [of heart], among the other frequencies. How often and how hard are answerings. The surf, receding, leaves successive hemline trims of barely raised institching sand — bridal-wreath puckerings — glassy this side , packed smooth that.

What took place before one looked. Snakeskin of darker sands in with the light. Slightly more raised and wider alligator skins. The single tubefish, dead, long as a snake, half snout, rolled over and over as the waves pick up, return, return less often, go away. Graphed beachlength on the scallop-edged lapping retreat: christmas-ornament red shrimp punctually all along the highs of each upskirting arc — prongs upright, stiff. Swift ticks of sunlight count them out. Who has enough? A little distance back two vultures feeding on a pelican.

Later, claws and beak float in the brack. Foam-bits lace-up the edge of the retreat.

For knowledge, for Islam and for Muslim Ummah

The individual grains are not discernible. I take a stick and run it through the corridor of wilderness. It fills a bit with water the first time. Is self-erased.


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The second time it does not fill. It leaves a mark where my stick ran. I make another cursive mark. How easily it bends to cursive, snakes towards thought. Looking back I see the birds eating the bird. The other way my gaze can barely reach shore-break. The little weight of the stick in my hand. The meditation place demands. My frequency. This hand, this sugar-stalk. The canefields in the back of us, the length of tubefish back there too. And if I write my name. And how mist rounds the headland till the sea is gone. One feels word should be sent us from some source.

It is all roar and cry and suck and snap. The pebbles on the pebbles roll.

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One feels one has in custody what one cannot care for for long. Too much is asked. Nothing is coming back the way it was. But one can wait for the next hem, next bride, next oscillation, comedy. Done, the birds fly off. I can see through the trees, through the cane grove, palm grove, out far enough into the clearing where the spine of the picked-clean story shines.


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