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To the Man Reading Melville on the Beach Some things are best locked away. What the timbre of his voice pries open. What I hear this brown bird sing. This bird with his sunny song. Then the chatter of squirrels, Their scratching running. But it’s the interminable tapping, That’s what’s driving me mad. Sometimes, what I hear I pass along. I heard, yesterday, on the radio, On the way home from work, In my car, traveling west at seven, That Ulysses is best understood spoken aloud, And that this novel is now available on audio tape. so I listen to it while driving to and from work never having to sit next to odd dogs, or you on the bench in the park, not struggle with the lamp in the dark, not the weight of the book in my lap, nor the dark weight of Dublin hanging from each black image he left us, yet ponder, as I listen to the black words drip, listen as mob hones its steely blades, as Mrs. Bloom recounts her weathered life as her vapid vocals a capella - sans comma – sans dash As if Bloom was a blind man – As if you were a blind man – As if you were Bloom and I Joyce And we were one mind struggling to free The one hopeful mouse from the trap, Better to hear another’s fitful dream, To witness her primal scream, To hear our white canes Tapping on those cellar doors. The scratching sounds late at night. And other sounds I’ve forgotten, Struggled mightily to forget. And they rise in the dark With their now familiar voices In a theater built for one; And as the scenes hurry by I lust for your Melville, Captain Ahab, The crashing sea, the story of Ishmael, Don’t paint me dead or ask me why. I need a story with a strong beginning, Not a long dark drive into that dead end of his. Leave the book there on the bench and walk away. I have a gun. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Jennifer j Hill On Date: 2004-07-04 07:45:48
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.85714
T,
careful with the gun talk,
someone might think you're a republican.
In this forum that's akin to suicide.
Oh, very much enjoyed this poem.
jj