The Single Simple Glance

This is not the poem that imitates a poem.

This is not the poem about language.

This is not the poem about form or formalism

            or language theory about the function

            of form in formalistic

            rituals not created

            under a microscope

            to serve a function.

This is not the poem about the sins of the mother.

This is not the poem about the role of the father

            in the mouth

            of the orange-

            tip-winged blackbird.

This is not the poem regarding a single

            or long play vinyl.

This is not the poem that differentiates

            a glyph

            from a word

            ill-spent.

This is not the poem that rehashes memory.

This is not the poem that will save the world,

            perform miracles,

            change our simonous ways.

This is not the poem that will roll over

            and play dead.

This is not the poem that wrote the beginning

            of the poem that began

            ‘This is not the poem…’.

This is not the poem about the red, juicy plums

            in the white, cold icebox.

This is not the poem that plays word association games.

This is not the poem that understands mind theory,

            string theory,

            or interconnectivity.

This is not the poem that plays freeze tag.

This is not the poem that painted itself into a box

            located in the far southeast corner

            of Tansey’s bricoleur’s daughter,

            stretching for a glimpse

            up the photo-realistic shorts.

This is not the poem that counts words.

This is not the poem that counts books.

This is not the poem formulated in a laboratory

            of existing fragments

            better intended

            for scrap.

This is not the poem that was supposed to be written.

This is not the poem about the works of Mark Tansey.

This is not the poem about the words of the author.

This is not the poem that recounts a heartbreaking moment.

This is not the poem that will parse the psychological breaks

            you have experienced

            with your past

            and label them in safe

            if apt and precarious

            categories you can

            mumble into jargon

            when caught in the act

            of explanation.

This is not the poem that portrays an emotional distance.

This is not the poem that will cartwheel into your heart.

This is not the poem that will jump from the ledge on a dare.

This is not the poem that wrecked the rental

            van on highway 80

            driving into the risen creek waters

            and walked away, far

            away leaving a dilapidated crate

            full of stolen stereos

            and a broken shoebox full of somebody’s

            grandmother’s pictures.

This is not the poem that haphazardly tossed the salad

            spewing pistachio nuts

            and black olives

            all over the firmament

            of the stainless counter.

This is not the poem about lonesome rock climbing.

This is not the poem that explained the actions of the few.

This is not the poem running to stand still, if only

            a few paces

            from where it began.

This is not the poem about changing a singular point of view.

This is not the poem that discusses – in fervent detail –

            the wing structure of a hummingbird

            in flight.

This is not the poem that imagined itself to be a sonata.

This is not the poem about limbs breaking,

            about buildings falling,

            about the single simple glance

            an eye might catch

            of pavement rushing

            to meet.

This is not the poem that counts its eggs before they are hatched.

This is not the poem that will sell its soul

            unless the price is right.

This is not the poem delineating the line between

            what is right

            what is wrong

            why everyone does already

            not know the line.

This is not the poem about muddy waters or miles

            to go ere we

            reach the far shore.

This is not the poem that will save your life.

This is not the poem for good people in hard times.

This is not the poem in the anthology that you thought

            you remembered that

            you badly misquoted when

            you tried to recite your favorite line

            for your mother

            who does not read poetry

            and was only listening

            because she hears your voice

            so infrequently.

This is not the poem with the jazz rhythm

            best read with dragon snaps

            in the haze of clove smoke.

This is not the poem about the window.

This is not the poem that offers an answer,

            any answer

            to any question.

This is not the poem born of laborious hours

            researching the declension

            of the verb later

            edited out.

This is not the poem that will change water into wine.

This is not the poem about the bloom of the eye

            haphazardly tossed

            to the tree

            to the leaf

            to the sidewalk

            you once remembered

            what you remembered.

This is not the poem that will breathe fire

            in the throats

            of the unbelievers.

This is not the poem about the author, either.

This is not the poem about the finalities of endings.

© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved