PRACTICE
Love, my faith is vague. When others speak
of how they practice it, I think of kung fu
and plywood destroyed by pajamed banshees,
how they always say you learn
such force through practice, pain repeated until
pain isn't pain. It's the piccolo
with its reed humming slivers
of sound that won't ever be music
no matter the fervor of practice,
no matter the pursed poise
of your lips. When I write you, when I peel
away the stamps one no longer
need lick, I'm careful. Careful
for ounces of ink and pulp
and minutes shaved from time
if it exists at all and these words
I strung together beyond needful elaboration
only to say I thought of you
today beside the humming fountain
and had no change to wish
you some better life,
some cloud of shade to be
at your infinite beck, your always and immediate
call. A form of faith I follow
is the sky because it never falls,
despite the testimony of chickens
snuffed by hail, ragdolled by the rain
and through my window
I'm watching the last of summer
as the leaves begin to curl
in invisible fire
and I want to tell you
one thing which has within it no urgency at all
over and over again.
-Paul Guest
Who is this hack? ;)
Posted by: Paul | December 01, 2006 at 07:13 AM
I dunno. I found this poem on the wrapper of a pack of Twizzlers.
Posted by: Terrible Mother | December 01, 2006 at 08:09 AM
did the chickens really get snuffed by hail?
harsh
Posted by: Kari | December 01, 2006 at 09:20 AM
(i love it, just making a funny)
Posted by: Kari | December 01, 2006 at 09:20 AM
No chickens were harmed in the making of this poem.
Posted by: Paul | December 01, 2006 at 09:39 AM
He's right, Kari. No chickens were harmed. But pajamaed banshees? They were jacked.
Posted by: Terrible Mother | December 01, 2006 at 01:02 PM
go ahead and laugh at me because i am concerned about the innocent chickens.
have i mentioned how rude and wasteful i think it is for karatekungfuers to waste perfectly good plywood that they could use to build the chickens a shelter from the deadly hail?
Posted by: Kari | December 01, 2006 at 01:47 PM
Oh, but I am certain that the hail makes them more tender.
Posted by: Terrible Mother | December 01, 2006 at 02:31 PM
you're not pulling the "weird things i know because i lived with the mountain people" card, are you?
Posted by: Kari | December 01, 2006 at 02:56 PM
The mountain people were good for learning many things, among them how to syphon gas, slip quarters out of change machines, and build really successful bonfires with tires. But no, no chicken tenderizing.
Posted by: Terrible Mother | December 01, 2006 at 03:23 PM