Poemecake – Chocolate Cake Poem By Michael Rosen
Look, youwant ityou devour itand then, thengood as it wasyou realizeit wasn’twhat youexactlywantedwhat youwantedexactly waswanting
Noah Eli Gordon is the author ofIs That the Sound of a Piano Coming from Several Houses Down (Solid Objects, 2018).
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“Small as it is, this poem deals with the continually fleeting and bewildering conditions of desire, fulfillment, ambition, guilt, and happiness. There’s some ambiguity in the ending, which can be read as both the lack of a direction or the direction of that which is lacking. Sometimes travelhome.vn get to have their cake and eat it too.”—Noah Eli Gordon
To say sleep works by accumulation is to disregard theweather in my head.It makes a genius of the pillow, an apt anthropomorphicredundancy.When the story stumbles into its fearless costume &everyone at the edge of the woods is worried their waiting-room bravado won”t open to anything but the same door onthe same house that seemed a little off in the morning,every anecdote has an empty object.When your own name”s written on the gate, negation is justsomething we do.What”s redundant about the human personal? The urge to cullan animal pronoun from a procession of wedding guests?At least reductive absolutes rivet you somewhere closer tothe actual rainfall, adjudicating ultimatums or handlingthe ounce of mulch it takes to cover any experience worthcalling tactile.There”s nothing sharp about a knife in a movie.& doesn”t it make you fearless & brave to say so.
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Cloudless sky, a tendril root, a chord begun as unfolding duration & one’s lost words,a red lexicon, an empty definitiongathering its discourse—the flow from content to perception: language is a translation of grace.Say the body, say the heart, a composition in blue,the passing energy, cell, motion, inevitability; an impact until meaning wears throughthe mind’s opulence, its spindle—a white thread.Tethered to conviction, one says moon, one, emotion —the recurrence of night: a door will open,shifting from anonymity to intellection—a translationof sight with speech, awoken not by voice but what precedes it: the worldliness, wordless;a measure of sound or movement to song.
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I”d give you another day dizzy in its bracket for the reluctant circumference of a sad sad satellite”s antiquated orbital stoppage.You can”t jump with a lead foot, can”t anthropomorphize insect anticipation, can”t pixelate postcard nostalgia, can”t trace a boy”s tiny hand and call himking of anything that crosses your path, your past,your iconographic reluctance to let go the toeholdof ordinary New York lasting so long at night, solusty in traffic & another orphan absentlykicking the underside of an orange plastic chair.Poems shouldn”t make you wait for them to finish.Like love, they should finish making you wait.
Noah Eli Gordon
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