CommentsDevious Comments You've taken the poem into a much larger dimension than I envisioned, and I love it!
I wrote this some years ago and it was the distillation of some personal stuff, so it was very much inward looking. It's heartening that, despite that, you saw somewhat universal relevance in it. You've just proved what you said earlier re learning about one's work from others' readings of it. Thank you. -- --aslam  Any time, really, for me I write for myself...it's a special treat when someone comes up with an idea on it I'd never have guessed at...truth is, what is personal is almost always something someone else has been through, so in a sense the personal IS the universal which is why I think such poems are so universally accessible...thank-you for posting it.
-- Andrew Hussey "For a sorcerer, reality, or the world we all know, is only a description that has been pounded into you from the moment you were born." -Carlos Castaneda |
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The first stanza deals with physicality, the Id as Freud would call it...arms, to hands to fingertips, implies to me a sense of distance, where the will to physically contact someone or something only holds valid by doing it in a sense "by proxy", moving the arms, to control the hands to the fingers. Notice how they "keep time at a distance", or rather those physical moments adhere to basic temporeality, we cannot touch as a spirit and so, through this physicality, these bags of flesh we can EMULATE connection. Then finally the consequence, this lack of connection emptying the emotional core of the person "the heart" no longer carries the hope of connection, and with the next line, that connection is sublimated elsewhere...where? Is it in some other aspect of the self? In some external escape such as drugs? He leaves these questions abiguous.
The second is, for lack of a better term, the ego, the intellect or logic, with the loss of that connection that temporeality I mentioned before falls by the wayside..."nights don't fall so easily", they must be WILLED in other words, willed by what? The dust offers a clue, a fallacious sunset created by the dust of our malignancy we send up in the fear of isolation. And ultimately, the reality, when the dust settles...the light flees as the shimmering silver of the wondrous la luna
Lastly we have the Superego...the pure feeling. Holding wishes in this perpetual twilight, the recognition of the lack of power will has over change on such a level as sunrise and moonrise remain "unwashed", "unclean", unresolved ultimately. Still, hope if offered, the wonderment of the rain bleeding such blame from the subject...blood for an inkwell which, in the last line, is mentioned as unwritten, the hopes and dreams that will never see the written page.
This is a beauiful work, the general concept I've seen before, but the impact of it, and the way in which you convey it more than makes up for it. Awesome job.