Stones, sculpture... I got home after another granitic day at "The Rock", where I spend my days [ja privistu maia dnei?] & found this week's New Yorker in the mailbox, with a really terrible poem by William Logan, and another poem by Billy Collins, about statuary [contains the word "plaque"]. I enjoyed his poem in the way I enjoyed an iced caffe-latte from Dunkin' Donuts, which I never do, but I was with somebody (Jim Chapin, from the band, who drinks them every day - we were talking about Otto D'Ambrosio...). The poem is somewhat Whitmanesque - ingratiating, but without the balls...
Here's my counter-NYorker poem (from Stone, 1979):
Statue standing grey in summer rain,
wrinkled stone worn by many seasons,
brow, shoulders, backbone full of purpose,
memory shivering in the roar of battle,
emblem of endurance everlasting,
lasting now in peacetime summer rain.
Rising in the shadow of the trees,
mist of thoughts returning from the dead,
comes to life within the broken heart,
comes to join the living and the dead,
statue of the mystery of glory,
statue standing grey in summer rain.
tomorrow, maybe, I start my "found poem" series...