Thursday, August 28, 2008

Poem of the Week (or month, or year)

We Did Not Make Ourselves

By Michael Dickman

(from this week's New Yorker, and my apologies because the formatting isn't perfect)


We did not make ourselves is one thing

I keep singing into my hands

while falling

asleep


for just a second


before I have to get up and turn on all the lights in the house, one after the

other, like opening an Advent calendar


My brain opening

the chemical miracles in my brain

switching on


I can hear


dogs barking

some trees

last stars


You think you’ll be missed

it won’t last long

I promise


____________


I’m not dead but I am

standing very still

in the back yard

staring up at the maple

thirty years ago

a tiny kid waiting on the ground

alone in heaven

in the world

in white sneakers


I’m having a good time humming along to everything I can still remember

back there


How we’re born


Made to look up at everything we didn’t make


We didn’t

make grass, mosquitoes

or breast cancer


We didn’t make yellow jackets


or sunlight


either


_____________


I didn’t make my brain

but I’m helping

to finish it


Carefully stacking up everything I made next to everything I ruined in broad

daylight in bright

brainlight


This morning I killed a fly

and didn’t lie down

next to the body

like we’re supposed to


We’re supposed to


Soon I’m going to wake up


Dogs

Trees

Stars


There is only this world and this world


What a relief

created


over and over

8 comments:

tunsie said...

A poet observes everthing in life.everything is holy to them.their poems must be sensational,well constructed,and is often thought of as a jewel.the poet is associated with the profet and the person looking.He is absorbed with beauty,he wants that erotic moment to last forever.tunsie.tunsie.tunsie

tunsie said...

man is the only creature that is conscious of his death.we are all under the sentence of death.the last thing a person thinks about during the process of death is MOTHER,ironic because she could be dead for many,many years,it"s like she's always there,always with you--albert camus.

tunsie said...

I once sent flowers to a very beautiful women and the card inside I wrote "I wanted these flowers to see how beautiful you are".she cried when she read the card,and called me after to tell me that is the most wonderful card she ever read.women are not moved by words anymore.they are motivated by agenda.sad.tunsie.tunsie.tunsie

tunsie said...

and miles to go before I sleep.and miles to go before I sleep.Frost repeated the line because he couldn't think of anything else to say........ tunsie.tunsie.tunsie

tunsie said...

All I can think of is his extaordinay gift of hope,and a romantic readiness.Let us admire a man when he is alive and not when he is dead,after that my own rule is to leave everything alone.....F Scott Fitzgerald

tunsie said...

We are in love with love.....D.H.Lawrence.......You know you're in love when you are paralyzed with happiness....tunsie jabbour.......tunsie.tunsie.tunsie

tunsie said...

that is much too vulgar display of my power.......william peter blatty

tunsie said...

They are going to get what they want,because I am going to give it to them.......T.E.Lawrence