22 March 2011

Sagitta

I like to steal.

This is putting it mildly.

Art is a sort of great culturally approved of con.

You pick and choose the bits you want to use and leave the rest.

The second to last stanza of this poem is not mine. It is Frank O'Hara's

And I'm not ashamed to say that I think I wear it well.


Sagitta (Mayakovsky) 3/22

It may be the coldest day of
the year.

Mother,
I am sorry that I
did not turn into anything
anyone wanted.

At least, I’m sorry
I feel that way.
Who am I?

Cherry trees are blooming
like they always do. The sun
still lights St. John
the Divine’s glass windows.

Who am I to think
of these things?

What a poet!

The world is a trap, I am
a trap, a book that pulls
and never releases its contents
is a trap.

My mind is a looping
reel of film. Holding.

It is going to burn through
the image of La Chiene, it
will cease, turn brown.
It will become the dead actor.

I am a copycat. A cipher.
If he would just come back
and run his coarse chin over mine,
I guess, I could get dressed,
take myself for lunch.

Eat something heavy
that will wound, knot.
Make enemy of my stomach.

I have never had
much appetite for reality.

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

And what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? I mean,
what does anyone?