Wednesday, September 2, 2009
no one hears his own remarks as prose
Unrhymed, unrhythmical, the chatter goes:
Yet no one hears his own remarks as prose.
Beneath each topic tunelessly discussed
The ground-bass is reciprocal mistrust.
The names in fashion shuttling to and fro
Yield, when deciphered, messages of woe.
You cannot read me like an open book.
I’m more myself than you will ever look.
Will no one listen to my little song?
A howl for recognition, shrill with fear,
Shakes the jam-packed apartment, but each ear
Is listening to its hearing, so none hear.
"At the Party," W.H. Auden
[Damen Avenue above Pontiac Street]
- ► 2011 (107)
- ► 2010 (115)
- if that ruins your life
- i smile and pass by
- Two new shows in October, at Myopic Books and Dove...
- i want to live like ipod people, i want to do what...
- [Dearborn Avemue at Randolph Street]
- talk trails into tattered scraps
- reminded of the beauty of gesture
- like honey in the trees
- even the buildings
- until all that remains
- such a pitch of tedium
- moving cross the borders
- air smelled of burned rubber and melted wires
- somehow lurking behind this absence
- no one hears his own remarks as prose
- ▼ September (17)