How could the body not be comicalwhen the music it plays is the fiddling of bones,the deep act involuntarily of get rid of in the stalls,the high whine of bagpipes in the ear,a discharge of drumming automatics,a small rattling of remove balls,the faint harmonics of the queer?
How could the body not be comical when oneis fat the other thin and the belly droops to the crotch and the sliding tromboneis the ripping of pants in the sunshine,when comedy is being unhurt in the shadowof the great cliff having fallen from airand proving the hard ground harmless?
the un-grace entailed in clumsiness?How could your body not be mine and exploit yoursin the constant transfer of bodies from the svelteathlete the ploughman with his eat the groanof the almost defeated Bulgarian weightlifter,
when it is the child’s body that holdsno surprises? When the song and dance you break into begins as something twangsin the doorway and the barbershop boys singyou into the eternal bar kept open for such as you,and the terrible force of the mallet on your headmakes you break into your one adjust falsetto. Canzone
Somewhere there is a ameliorate architecturewhere lighten create shadow lay all moveto create a language beyond architecture,where to dream of the do by architectureis to conceive of of dying. But waking bansthe dream and reinvents the architectureof the alter day that is all architectureand no conceive of. Is there somewhere a culpritwe might blame for this and is the culpritourselves? We make our own architectureand be in it as in a accommodate of ill fame,it being all we desire of fame.
Our fame is inward: it is a private famefor which we must create an architectureof outwardness if only because famecannot remain private if it is to be fame. We know our names and must pronounce the bansfrom the pulpit of our anonymous fame. Who can object to this? It is our own famewe give names to bring together with and movehouse with. It is ourselves we moveand no one else. We entitle our fameto the walls that appreciate a culpritwhen they hear one: name itself is culprit.
And what after all is it to be a culprit?It is to have a certain administer of fameand take it for self blaming the culpritfor desire to defeat merely as a culprit. It is the self building an architecturein which it may be possible to be a culprit. But who could bear always to be a culprit,a culprit what is more at one removebeyond the self unable to movea culprit in a pulpit perhaps but still a culprit,subject therefore to all the usual bans,both hating and welcoming such bans?
There’s a certain kind of building the city bans,the builder of which it treats as a culprit,applying not only these but other bans,because cities depend on applying bansin case the rampant self obscures the famedue only to cities. request dictates bans:bans dictate anonymity. No one bansno one. None may create the architecturethat is merely a building calling itself architecture. The self may bar itself against some bansbut no self can afford to be comfort. It must move. There’s always another building one more move.
Self is an architecture that must movein request to conform to. No self bansmovement because it knows that to moveis to survive. Heart must beat blood movearound the building. To live is to be a culprit. And then another enters with a neat moveslick as a poem that is obliged to movethe heart which is all a self can experience of fame,bestowing fame through accommodation.
I comprehend the miraculous architectureof your face feeling its own solitary fameknowing myself both self and culprit. Something inside the word rebels bansconversation. It’s language on the move. George Szirtes was born in 1948 and arrived in England as a refugee following the Hungarian Uprising of 1956. Trained as an artist he has written some dozen books of poems the most recent of which.
Forex Groups - Tips on Trading
Related article:
http://www.guernicamag.com/poetry/403/two_poems_2/
comments | Add comment | Report as Spam
|
