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« "Scarface Nation" [by Ken Tucker] | Main | Love / Hate [by Terence Winch] »

January 22, 2023

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Yes, perfect in its own ambiguity👏

Whew!! A poem that self-unravels . . .


To be unfound, to step back, to close the door, to walk away.

Thank you for this lovely and melancholic observation.


Take Care

Indran

Indran Amirthanayagam,
Co-publisher Beltway Editions (www.beltwayeditions.com)

Magnificent poem of the mystery of being unfound! Thanks so much Terence, and Brava, Renia!
This is a poem I sincerely wish I had found in my own writing, and perhaps I shall!

The reversals, literal and imagined, are intimidating and intoxicating in this thoroughly absorbing, challenging poem. It's far more than a cri de coeur. It's a yearning for more and for less simultaneously. How do you decouple the urgings of the past from those of the present and future? "Everything wishing to be unfound": don't we all lead interior, stealth lives of some sort or other? "Each fruit unripe": how long do we wait for ripeness? And when are we past the point of rescue? Perhaps asking that question is its own answer. Brava, Renia White, for this extraordinary poem.


Mr. Nevins: Thanks for the comment.

A remarkable poem that launches vividly from its uncanny original first line. Everything contained here is striking, delivered by a wise speaker who never strains to reveal her world, a thought full of solid material "wishing/to be unfound." The poem treats us to forceful, compact quantum lyricism.

I love this wonderful poem.

Thank you for this poem, Renia. A fierce caution cradles hope in her loving arms. I also like the accompanying art.
Thank you for posting, Terence.


Diane:  Thanks for the comment on the poem and the art.


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I too, eileen, love this wonderful poem

At the very center of this marvelously challenging poem, the poet herself is "found" by a distressing man. With her feet in his hands, she is not free to go. If she is to escape, then what she has created, all that is a part of her, must go with her; it must all share her wish to be unfound -- a thought ending in a nothingness that frightens her.

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I left it
on when I
left the house
for the pleasure
of coming back
ten hours later
to the greatness
of Teddy Wilson
"After You've Gone"
on the piano
in the corner
of the bedroom
as I enter
in the dark


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