The Habit of Poetry

The Habit Of Poetry Claire Harris somethinganythingby definition finite alive only to the moment so the web of our poem warp observation weft art still s(l)ungif s(l)inging is & possible the dream serape against the cold a(gains)t knowing postures of the imagination ideas tothinness alltrim & old cloth faded full of holes & lyricism yet still struggling to clothe this un/new era to shout 'human' as where the naked are criminal a faith too long in the tootha craft too long in light of sight sound a particular rhythm a stranger knowing cosmetic to spotty angst fear [End Page 1045] so the poem a scrap trapped in ancient ice (O but she hath a lovely face god in her wisdom grant her grace or something like therefore coffined eternal rest unto etc. dead of quanta/relativity/chaos/theory/ our politics its whimper its constant careless murder of possibilitydead of ourselves our long lingering absorptionwith the body our search for easesecurity and no holy land its absenceanywheredead of fear & we unable to stand our own frantic per(re)versions dead of this instant constant knowingwe would rather not have our lovely only planet in blast & heave lies deep as icebergs & calving this century long wake to do with need our minds rags our grip slow thin wintry flattening the safe comfortable (un)knownour mo(u)rnings for now this old poetic cloth before TV before Gates-blasted hearths stripped to hobby say rag-rugs perhaps honor to the ancestors their innocence a marking time a writing ourselves downin case [End Page 1046] where technologies mass their brilliant terror prepare to whirl curl the earth into hot embrace to sweep the plains off their feet dance them to sleep with outpassion Bless me Mother for I am sinning this new ethos so human so & (instinctive this move to what ishard edged bitter but is order in this false & murderous century how difficult this art: makeitrealnewtrueusefulcommonplacemakeitglideevensing how faint grace andhow with every line this poem this hope fails we alone in its/our own cold intensities thus on towards Rock of ages DA-DA-DA- HOW I PLACE MY FAITH IN THEE [End Page 1047] Copyright © 2001 Charles H. Rowell

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