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Cesar Vallejo was pulling Sylvia Plath
out of the oven by her hips,
words widespread,
the Eiffel Tower making a land-bridge
between France and England.
He helped her to the sofa,
she was still in a daze
as you can well imagine.
Her eyes a distant star, maybe Antares,
her frock (which we are not
about to mock) gave her the air
of so many housewives up and down the street.
Cesar got her a cup of coffee
and they talked late into the night
except for interruptions by her children,
who still had a mother
and us, who still had a poet,
but we, of course, dared not intrude.
We stood against a wall
and marveled at their art,
our eyes stuck to theirs with Elmer’s Glue.
6 comments:
A most curious poem. Was Cesar Vallejo indeed in Paris in those days? Living up the street (in London) was W.S. Merwin. The poem might stand quite nicely sans the Elmer's graphic (which renders so emphatic the final line), as other images in the poem -- the pulling from the oven -- the bridge of the tower (etc.) -- well ring more strongly for me than the eyes-stuck-with-glue conceit. The poem lacking the final line, would feel less flip than with it. However, whatever.
cheers,
d.i.
Thanks for your kind comments,david.But,Elmer's Glue is the most important part of this poem.Remember,we must keep our corporate sponsors happy.And,Elmer,if you're listening, please ignore david's blasphemy.
You know this is such a freaking weird poem that I want it. I want it.
So if you premit me, I would like to publish it in OCHO.
Let me know.
Didi
You know this is such a freaking weird poem that I want it. I want it.
So if you premit me, I would like to publish it in OCHO.
Let me know.
Didi
Ah, "product placement." Is this how money might finally make its way into the poetry world?
Yes,didi,you can have this poem for ocho.And thank you.
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