On reading a review of a Norton lecture
Think of arms, wrists, hands, fingers
erasing the dark to let in more light.
Then you can do something unforgiving
to dead words traveling the thick black lines
on paper: smudge everything with the hush
of the artist's gestures. The first sentence
without fire, without oxygen in its voice,
rendered in double negation, at odds with
the ornamented images you draw in calligraphy
to get at what is hidden, does not answer
the puzzle of what makes blossoms prized
objects, even when they balk, refusing to come
out. Inside every riddle is understanding:
we cannot pull the chest ache close enough
to experience escapes from gravity. Unfolding
the creation of a poem is an art form, revealing
disparate strands of days when the ink presents
itself, waiting for instruction, our own translation.
© 2012 Maureen E. Doallas
This is another example of a "found poem"; each word used is taken from this review of artist William Kentridge, Norton Lecturer this year at Harvard. Other "found poems" of mine can be read here and here.