“tzaghi’k”// armenian for common flower [2]
Do you ever get the feeling something is close to being the way you want it but not exactly? In the end I kept asking myself, "you go from flowers to highways and why?" There needs to be a map, a guidepost, some sort of marker for the reader to follow along with. This might not be it, but I love the question: "What am I without words? … a string/ of pure nonsense …" There are many times I think I am pure nonsense even (and perhaps especially) with words, but still; they say you are never done with a poem until you crumple it up into a ball and let a hooligan play with it.
If this were music instead of poetry I'd take it a DJ friend and let her sample bits and pieces and then rearrange the song into something far better, something you could dance to. Even though I end up writing fragmented, stream of consciousness poems, I am all for narrative flow as well. In fact I think the stronger the form the more fun you can have with the word play. The original poem had a villanelle in it. I changed it to a sonnet. As Billy Collins once said in getting people to read about your despondent life: "happy form/ miserable content" …
… oh, and this scribe I keep talking to? If Dante had a scribe, so can I! Wikipedia says this about the honorable work of a scribe:
Scribe (or Scrivener) is an ancient profession, a person who could read and write. This usually indicated secretarial and administrative duties such as dictation and keeping business, judicial, and history records for rulers such as kings, nobility, temples, and cities. Later the profession developed for example into public servants, accountants, and lawyers.
Perhaps tomorrow I will give you a remix of a remix? We shall see. We shall see.
***
[blister: the gyumri dub mix]
"bruises on the fruit. tender age in bloom." — nirvana
I.
little road stretching from there to
there do you recall my throat of
blossom? ah, scribe now
that we are in this dismal
hour scribble about arctic
scrub are they dahlias?
– no; roses? — no; orchids?
(not those damn cherry
blossoms) here along
the road, sugar and snow: your
flowers are limp. these flowers
are taut. all my dahlias
are tangled. scribble scribe,
there are no dahlias
on Mount Ararat. But a word,
"tzaghi'k," Armenian
for flower is still fun to say.
– ah! no toenails left in my boot
bloody root by root.
– oh! No roses save you sunflower.
Who sent me a postcard? that clear-bellied
poppy, Yukio Mishima pinned
above my bed "Ordeal
By Roses" indeed!
but you are no post
card, sunflower.
Take your full
bellied pen. let
me be a day
lily. Cornflower,
you were never
a cornflower — shut up!
Idiot! fool! moron! I
do not have the art to breathe
this divan of verse to breath,
impart life to each page, page
on page on page of blood, heart,
rhyme, the great yaw and yawn of
the sun, the mouthpart of my
cranium, salon of all
these words: blank, tart and brutal.
II.
Desire! lust rose! lime
blossoms! you have none
of this little road. sugar
and snow. let's talk about
the old days. making love
in the kitchen? — no:
there was no kitchen just
this little hut
in the snow, I woke,
I know, I dressed to go
out. and what? to go out
into the snow. you walked?
Blood in my boots, holy
terror of overshoes. you
walked? Blizzard. little road
I know there was no lime,
no lusty rose I know I burn
I itch in the snow — no: scribble
scribe, scribble bestial
words — ah! myrtle
in the skull. — oh! red plum
iris between the legs — what of it?
scribble over this
book, this flower —
***
this book like a
flower words like
flowers skin boiling
with flowers a
book like a
flower words like
flowers skin searing
with flowers a
book like a
flower words like
flowers skin blister
with
***
a word in the snow// all my skin frozen
marshes// words like flowers this skin's blister,
canker// I can feel dahlias swollen
along my veins// angry verb! the canker
of verbs, of words// the noun's obscene anger//
words fail me, books fail me// sugar and snow
and the whipping dark — scribble, scribe! sugar!
flower! little road! I know there is no
sugar, just dark! I burn! I itch! I know
you have no flower, little road! I bleed
marshes — no, words! I bleed words, a meadow
of words!// blood in my boots// I leave bloodied
footprints. What am I without words?// a string
of pure nonsense like "snowblind"// "bloom"// "bleeding"
***
a
string
of
pure
nonsense
a
book
like
a
flower skin boiling with flowers
words
like –
III.
– words like, "snowblind"// "bloom"// "bleeding"
that was me, scribe I know no way of heating
my hut my coffee black ice cottoned over,
gladiolus in the brain — no: metaphors
are easy but my verbs were fools. O
highway and highway of my highway
little road stretching from Yerevan
to Gyumri to Kars to Baku; do you
recall "bloom"? word — word
of summer — word of summer
perfume! of color — of color
I love — of color I love flower,
mushroom, vista// but these
boots in the snow// blood
in these boots, what
a drag, fleas, body
lice — highway?
my voice along
– highway — my
voice? — highway?
blossoming throat
– do you recall — blossoming
throat call — throat all — all — ll