day_for_night
Bluelighter
this is a poem by a great friend of mine. he is a profound influence on me...he has taught me everything from how to play the guitar, to how to analyze poetry (i still suck at it)...he is honestly one of the most creative and amazing people i know. one of those people who captivate a room just by speaking.
this is just a taste of what he is capable of. i am going to get a few of his spoken word poems hosted for you all to download...you will see what i mean, but his voice MAKES them.
anyways...
Etching the Blank
by Dean McKenzie
A blank page accuses drily
& I leap defensively
into the breach
to slam my nib down
& the blank fills with etch. The walls echo punctuation's punch
& the crossing & dottings of t's & i's
& the wiry hook of commas
& apostrophe curls
& my thoughts are echoed
in the etch.
This thought is mirrored
& echoed in the etch;
This slow, painful, cautious, relentless push of
thought
reflects
& reverbrates
& drags along with it
a reflex
of synaptic derivatives
that find a new truth
in the etch.
This pulsating, driving, impatient shunt
of wordsmith's hammering
drags and pushes
a rhythmic sorting
of its iambic saxon flow
into the canon
of evolved thought.
It slams its freight of phrase
into the fray of brain-stretch
that struggles for sense
in the black-rooted echoes
of the etch.
I shall etch you an etching
worn to the bone
I'll write it on tablets
& carve it in stone
then I'll rub you a copy
or read you my poem
then you'll etch me an etching
worn to the bone
tell me a story
write me a poem
this is just a taste of what he is capable of. i am going to get a few of his spoken word poems hosted for you all to download...you will see what i mean, but his voice MAKES them.
anyways...
Etching the Blank
by Dean McKenzie
A blank page accuses drily
& I leap defensively
into the breach
to slam my nib down
& the blank fills with etch. The walls echo punctuation's punch
& the crossing & dottings of t's & i's
& the wiry hook of commas
& apostrophe curls
& my thoughts are echoed
in the etch.
This thought is mirrored
& echoed in the etch;
This slow, painful, cautious, relentless push of
thought
reflects
& reverbrates
& drags along with it
a reflex
of synaptic derivatives
that find a new truth
in the etch.
This pulsating, driving, impatient shunt
of wordsmith's hammering
drags and pushes
a rhythmic sorting
of its iambic saxon flow
into the canon
of evolved thought.
It slams its freight of phrase
into the fray of brain-stretch
that struggles for sense
in the black-rooted echoes
of the etch.
I shall etch you an etching
worn to the bone
I'll write it on tablets
& carve it in stone
then I'll rub you a copy
or read you my poem
then you'll etch me an etching
worn to the bone
tell me a story
write me a poem
