doornail
Happy cold weather again! And... now for a poem. Does this one make sense?
KNOCK US DEAD
We ask about retinopathy, torn toenails,
and broken limbs.
He answers with a sigh:
that’s not what the problem is;
it’s you. Plain we.
With our wheelbarrows full,
our rakes and our paint—we forget
where the problem went.
But, there—it leaks! You leaked. We leak!
See?
All this upkeep and, still, we’ve got hands
full of just
gravel. Stolen—gray
dusty stones with sharp ends. Just
open your fist; your fist;
fist first. Then,
celebrate these old dirty hands.
Piñata—swing-
the-bat time now.
Labels: poem
posted by B-Go at
3:38 PM
3 Comments:
With the risk of overspiritualizing everything, I thought you were talking about redemption/the cross in this poem?? Or maybe I'm totally off...
By
Megumi, At
2:31 PM
i think with a little tweaking on my part, your interpretation could be just right. i need to do some work on this thing.
By
B-Go, At
2:39 PM
Ok, so here's why I thought what I thought. It's kind of silly but:
We ask about retinopathy, torn toenails,
and broken limbs.
>(I had to look up what retinopathy means. I don't remember what I found out though...)
Torn broken nail and broken limbs somehow put an image of Jesus's broken body. But now that I think of it, at least broken limbs would not make sense because they make a point in the fact that his limbs were NOT broken... Oh well.
He answers with a sigh:
that’s not what the problem is;
it’s you. Plain we.
>We being us. The image of Christ all torn up. But the pain and agony of it was not his problem. The problem is, us.
With our wheelbarrows full,
our rakes and our paint—we forget
where the problem went.
>The image of us with our wheelbarrows full of crap.
But, there—it leaks! You leaked. We leak!
See?
>We leak, with our crap.
All this upkeep and, still, we’ve got hands
full of just
gravel. Stolen—gray
>Crap that we hold onto as if they were treasures...
dusty stones with sharp ends. Just
open your fist; your fist;
fist first.
>When we let go of crap that we cling onto, there is freedom. Dusty still, maybe. But empty and free hands to receive... life?
Then,
celebrate these old dirty hands.
Piñata—swing-
the-bat time now.
>Which calls for celebration. Like a new birthday for new life.
Well, regardless of how off I was from the original intent of the poem, I like the image of Pinata.
By
Megumi, At
9:39 PM
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