Spectators on the banks,
Below, the river’s malcontent; above,
the winds’ reeds’re resonant
With restive cycles in all those reasons. So many eyes intent
On recognition of what’s lately seen when all is rank.
Still Hamlet gathers evidence back and forth along the way…

The prince questions nothing in the stationary life;
He does not mourn a life whose questions never fade
Remaining here but seconds in the day—
In endless desert silences or audience to incessant city’s sirens–
And that one is here implies a demarcation on the far horizon,
No mistaken material substance as Ophelia slept,
No mystic talisman found to thwart the fall; His promise kept
To seed a cloudless day or lighten pressures in the bloated neon night;
His peerless plight, knowing nothing spends his days in endless search
and how poor Yorick must have felt.

6 responses to ““Spectators”

  1. Now, even if it isn’t so, this one seems to have been written for the image…

    Still, this is brilliance: “the winds’ reeds’re resonant”

  2. It’s what I mean when I say that there are times when finding a painting or photograph or a work of sculpture such as this one of Hamlet, for me at times is as much fun as writing the poem in the first place.

    And speaking of fun, I could not believe my eyes when I read “History Has No Taste” and discovered that I must have been tired when I hit the “send” button more than once and made what you so kindly referred to as a kind of “round” sort of poem; it was round because it was accidentally doubled as if it had been written by Porky Pig. Even so, while I was reading it, it reminded me of what happens on the computer when two pieces of music are accidentally played at the same time producing a kind of wondrous sound that isn’t all that bad at times because of course I would have thought that either piece of mustic fits with the other but strangely, by accident, they do. The result of yesterdays submission by Porgy Pig almost gave me the idea of doing something with it that way; after all, in its beginnings, the Anglo-Saxons used repetition to emphasise the importance of this or that word or phrase and ultimately that evolved into alliteration as the basis of its conventional poetic forms [as opposed to rhyme that was used by the French and aspects of numerological values of letters in Persian or Arabic. At any rate, you must have been cross-eyed getting through the result’s of last night’s mauling of that poem. Your comment was so diplomatic and couched in the kindest terms that I could imagine anyone addressing to me after having read that thing.

  3. But…

    The two “repetitions” weren’t exact…

    Was that a mash-up “accident??

  4. Yes, it was…completely. I didn’t discover it until today.

  5. P. S. One of the good things about being this old and having lost most of my sight in one eye is that when catastrophes in writing happen, I can always blame it on being tired and not quite seeing clearly. I remember years ago when I was still married, occasionally, there were “accidents” that involved gas. We had a dog named Jeffrey at the time, and on every unfortunate occasion with the gas, I successfully turned to Jeffrey and said, “Oh, Jeffrey,….rude!” I was apparently good at it, or at least good enough so that my wife felt that it was just one of those burdens to bear if one has a dog. Jeffrey’s been gone since 1980 and of course never knew how he was so abused; I am no longer married, but when those moments arrive, I cannot help thinking of how so innocently Jeffrey took the blame and naïve my wife actually was. With writing, once it hits the page, it’s a bit difficult explaining how it got there if anything really goes wrong…. I suppose I can always simply blame it on Porky Pig, my ghost writer.

  6. That’s classic to me 🙂

    I remember my visits to my favorite uncle on his farm.

    Took me years to realize that his dog, Blackie, wasn’t the farter…..

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