"tractatus" poems
Father James took
you and Gareth
and George
postulant monks
to a convent
in Newport
he had mass to serve
and confessions
to hear
so you were all
shown into a parlour
with the smell
of home bake bread
and starched sheets
and a young nun
came in
carrying a tray
with teapot
and cups
and sugar bowl
and jug of milk
all in a dull white
and as she set
the tray down
on the table
her eyes moved
from each one of you
taking in no doubt
young novices
in the training
the plain clothes
the black and white
the neat cut hairs
the shaven chins
and then she smiled
and went her way
no wiggling of hips
or female sway
carrying the tray
and Gareth spoke
of Wittgenstein
and the Tractatus
Logico Philosophicus
while George took in
the tidiness
of the room
the ****** smell
the taste
of aging flesh
while you half listened
on Wittgenstein
and the scent
of passing youth
remembering
the young nun’s smile
awaiting truth.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
I despair as a writer
when I think
that conversation,
the spark of humanity,
our golden embroidery
on life,
is unremarkable.
these days,
voices are
shallow melodies
with accents
on repeat:
I want you to listen
and believe,
but who really knows?
or is distinguishing
the repackaged
plagues of similar beliefs.
The differences
are basically the same
and it's time consuming
to critically think.
So exhausting
to feel
like I must hurry
to get a point across
before the nodding
glance to the black screen,
relieved of wondering:
Have you been listening
at ALL to my word
drawings and logic trees
derived from headlines,
videos, and abstract
malcontent?
I'm learning to be quiet,
or dramatic.
Nothing in between
but revising
a philosopher's tractatus:
Whereof one cannot speak,
One should remain silen..salient.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC