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My Monkey Grammarian
July 25, 2014
9:26 pm
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This search, this verbal trap of dread

and the ending unknown.

 

Is this path the poem—the journey

that dissolves into nothingness?

 

Is there anything after this narrow path

of howling trees and screaming monkeys?

 

Is their rhetoric leading us

to nothing but language?

 

We are both fleeing and falling like footsteps,

devoured and created like fruit,

 

precarious and perfect like gravity,

like Galta abandoned.

 

We are driven by our own ceremonies,

by whirling words and dervish skeletons.

 

Our linguistic corruption stretches out

to the horizon and curves into the atmosphere,

 

a maze made of metaphors, stuffed in sacks

and piled in rows. Discourse itself, leaps

 

back and forth, and grammar leans in

to critique the universe

 

while the shadow of Splendor recites verse

more naked than herself. Her expressions

 

float into the evening like incense

from an altar in search of the end. 

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c4a1g
Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson
July 31, 2014
4:43 pm
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You have certainly given poetry a larger-than-life feel! Stunning...amusing...and thoughtful all at once! Enjoyed.

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tlhopkinson
My identity can be found in my writing
July 31, 2014
5:02 pm
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This is inspired by Octavio Paz's book The Monkey Grammarian... its a fascinating read!

Wine is bottled poetry. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

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