(Originally posted on 3/6/2004)
Okay, I promised poetry, so to get the ball rolling, I have selected one that has been rather popular. Sounding Fury
I finished reading Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury,
placed it next to the notebook in my sack,
and headed out the door ruminating on its lack of sense,
suddenly realizing its randomness is everyday life.
A printed never-ending consciousness stream of TV images,
as the ones played out in front of me while I watch.
Engrossed by events I lose track and look at my watch.
Seeing the time, late to work, I imagine supervisory fury
as I rush in, still distracted by images
of people, ideas and faces pulling from bottles of sack.
I stop in my cubicle, claustrophobic cell of office life,
my desk staring blankly, appealing to logical non sense.
I stare at its gaping face and sense
its presence staring back like a guard on watch
over me because I’m a felon doing life
for smashing a skull in ravenous fury
over putting the eggs under the milk in the sack.
Remembering reality, quickly I stop these images.
I leave the office at five and return to the reverie images
of those all around me who sense
nothing wrong with the world dressed in sack
cloth. Begin to ponder too much about those I watch
hurting, wishing to all the fates that I were a Fury
seeking vengeance for this wronged life.
Why is it we wrestle with life only to die? Life
itself cannot be the respondent for our images
of Death and Decay ravaging with such fury
our collectively deluded sense
of balance. It can only sit there, a watch
dog of destiny, speaking only to give one the sack.
These postulations haunt ‘til I’m ready to sack
out, and continue with me everyday of my life.
It is such irony to spend life focusing on death. Watch
and you’ll see yourself in these images—
the streaming video feed that will dull every sense
until the vacuum is left in a violent fury.
I watch the flickering images
go by, and holding the sack, I pillage life—
swallow the injustice and hear my own sense of burning fury.
placed it next to the notebook in my sack,
and headed out the door ruminating on its lack of sense,
suddenly realizing its randomness is everyday life.
A printed never-ending consciousness stream of TV images,
as the ones played out in front of me while I watch.
Engrossed by events I lose track and look at my watch.
Seeing the time, late to work, I imagine supervisory fury
as I rush in, still distracted by images
of people, ideas and faces pulling from bottles of sack.
I stop in my cubicle, claustrophobic cell of office life,
my desk staring blankly, appealing to logical non sense.
I stare at its gaping face and sense
its presence staring back like a guard on watch
over me because I’m a felon doing life
for smashing a skull in ravenous fury
over putting the eggs under the milk in the sack.
Remembering reality, quickly I stop these images.
I leave the office at five and return to the reverie images
of those all around me who sense
nothing wrong with the world dressed in sack
cloth. Begin to ponder too much about those I watch
hurting, wishing to all the fates that I were a Fury
seeking vengeance for this wronged life.
Why is it we wrestle with life only to die? Life
itself cannot be the respondent for our images
of Death and Decay ravaging with such fury
our collectively deluded sense
of balance. It can only sit there, a watch
dog of destiny, speaking only to give one the sack.
These postulations haunt ‘til I’m ready to sack
out, and continue with me everyday of my life.
It is such irony to spend life focusing on death. Watch
and you’ll see yourself in these images—
the streaming video feed that will dull every sense
until the vacuum is left in a violent fury.
I watch the flickering images
go by, and holding the sack, I pillage life—
swallow the injustice and hear my own sense of burning fury.
copyright 2004-05 James Yeager
This is a Sestina I wrote for Chris Murray's poetry class last Spring (2004). Originally it was right-aligned, but I was unable to reproduce that format here...oh well *sigh*
Update: Blogger has since added wonderful posting features, so I felt this warranted reposting in its original format.
I felt it was appropriate for my first blog poem.
Let me know what you think!
Comments
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