I don’t normally reblog stuff, but this came up in my Reader (I do actually check it sometimes, I swear) and struck me several times in the face and head this morning. In a really good way.
The author has another piece of concrete poetry that I stumbled across months ago, from which I learned that during my early poetry writing days I had been producing said concrete poetry without knowing it was a thing that had a name. The other one is a fairly whimsical ode to the semicolon, which is a punctuation mark I’m very fond of. All due respect to Cormac McCarthy – who hates semicolons and never uses them – is intended.
This one, though, is a lot deeper, entirely coherent, the leaf shape symbolizes the poem, the color scheme symbolizes where the poem goes, the poem itself is incredibly well written…you know, most poetry you’d stumble across online is pretty self-indulgent, and when it’s not that, it’s pretty self-important, and this is neither. This is a meditation on the Big Cycle of Life and Death, but also the little cycles that comprise the bigger one, spiraling down and down it goes until you see that every infinitely divisibly minute unit of time is an Apocalypse and the Creation. It’s a treatise on time and how we too often misuse it, and yet even misused it isn’t ever really wasted. It’s a contrast between the tiny fleetingness of a leaf and the vast, all-encompassing birth-becoming-death that we all share in, animate sentience and inanimate existence alike. It’s about the small everyday pleasures, the fear and pain of maturity and its freedom, and not a little about a writer exulting in language; the author’s affection for words as things in themselves rather than merely a mode of communication is more than evident.
Hey, if you don’t believe me, let me remind you that the previous poem was about a semicolon. And it was great too.
Seriously, this should be the national anthem of, like, reality. It is, though, in a way.