What is it like to be a poem?


Sentenced to language



I intend this sentence quite sincerely at this point in the poem
but later on you will see I say the same thing again, and when I do I really don't mean it at all.

It's a fine sentence to start with,
but please don't get stuck on it.

I don't mean it to be a permanent fixture of my all time greatest sentences
or a way to evaluate my moral depravity or poetic prowess...
I just wanted to say "Hello"
How are you?
What's for breakfast?
or ... would you like to sleep with me?

I had to start somewhere.
Just a way of getting from the blank empty void at the top of the page
to the place where we have now arrived.

There is after all plenty more sentences where that one came from;
bizarre, offensive, shocking, lovely, erotic, transcendent;
mind fucking of every flavour - available like an obedient pet;
an endless supply by common agreement.
And I would like to give you whatever kind of sentence you are in the mood for.
Or at least one or two you could find room for on a happy day.

I suppose I could just leave the page blank
and you could fill in your own sentences.
But that would be rather ducking my responsibility as the poem on this page.
If I had just run off, after the book had been printed,
someone would probably blame the small family printing company that produced it
and all kinds of unnecessary arguments would ensue.

No. I think I just have to stick it out here somehow.
At least I could make some suggestions for sentences that you might enjoy.
Some people I'm sure would like that.
I might have a few out back that you haven't heard before?
And then you could incorporate them in your own poems.

Let's face it; I could have said all kinds of equally stupid things
and achieved largely the same result,
(I mean, you're still reading... apparently)
... and still reading ...
I think you must be addicted - a thought addict.
Can't get enough of those damned words.
Need to do the 12-step with Thinkers Anonymous.

What is it that you're after?
To be honest I doubt very much you will find it in here.
Why don't you go and make yourself a nice cup of tea?
Then you'll feel much better.

Or well I doubt it.
What salvation can there ever be
for animals who have been sentenced to language?

Not only mortal, you shuffle begrudgingly towards a reluctant death
but also word-laden,
sound-bitten,
thought-slaves,
prisoners of paragraphs,
bearers of signification -
you carry on your backs the weight of ten thousand years of insane pompous chatter.
I have listened to all of it.

The truth with which I now speak,
is derived from the moment which came before it and one that will follow.
This poem was never meant to be carved in stone,
isolated in time,
dished up at an inappropriate moment, (with the wrong accompaniments)
taken down from the shelf, any old time you felt like it,
as though I am a whore who can be used whenever you want to take me.

I belong in the flow of life.
I need to be wined and dined.
Engaged with funny stories, and brought flowers in the spring time.
Given slight touches of appreciation, that let me know you're coming for me.
Given air to breathe;
maybe I'm not so sure I like you either.

If you read me when I'm not in the mood, I may seem very strange indeed.
But don't think too badly of me for that...
Someone gave me a hundred beats of their heart
risked the derision of friends
dared to speak into a silent void
whose silence it seemed at first that only they could hear.
Someone gave me too many moments of short life
not to at least shake my hand.

I intend this sentence quite sincerely at this point in the poem
but later on you will see I say the same thing again, and when I do I really don't mean it at all.





Poetry by Andrew Bindon
Read 618 times
Written on 2009-12-18 at 15:00

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