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Gone are the days
when you could walk on water.
When you could walk.
The days are gone.
Only one day remains,
the one you're in.
The memory is no friend.
It can only tell you
what you no longer have:
a left hand you can use,
two feet that walk.
All the brain's gadgets.
Hello, hello.
The one hand that still works
grips, won't let go.
That is not a train.
There is no cricket.
Let's not panic.
Let's talk about axes,
which kinds are good,
the many names of wood.
This is how to build
a house, a boat, a tent.
No use; the toolbox
refuses to reveal its verbs;
the rasp, the plane, the awl,
revert to sullen metal.
Do you recognize anything? I said.
Anything familiar?
Yes, you said. The bed.
Better to watch the stream
that flows across the floor
and is made of sunlight,
the forest made of shadows;
better to watch the fireplace
which is now a beach.
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Copyright © 2003-2008 Gunnar Bengtsson, Poetry Connection. All Rights Reserved.
discovered this today! another of Atwood's masterly prose-poems. There're the same verbal economy, a similar dramatic tension as are the markers of the best of her poetry, like "This is a photograph of me" , " A Visit" and other exquisite pieces. Would like to analyze it further ... but some time later... am too tired now. bye.
suparna banerjee from India