What thing is there in me
you do not share?
What memory is mine alone?
Which day at the beach,
Which cookies out of reach
on the countertop?
What cookie jar fell,
what woman lost her top?

We are all Dilbert,
but Dilbert is no poem.

But poets die, cubicles collapse.
We all fall into Time's sure traps.
And still, into the end I walk, and sure.

Learn something from me, then,
says I, to myself.
Come live with me, upon a dusty shelf,
or wait as dandelions at the mouths of children
to be blown. What greater rhyme
for your self than my own?



Blogger Josh said...

nicely done, hombre. i'm having a hard time connecting the first stanza with the rest of the poem.

i am convinced the persona is talking about living on, after death, through his writing. i like the contrast between the writer's shelf life and the scattering frailty of the dandelion.

...and is that a marlowe allusion in the last stanza? brings me back to british lit 1.

8:29 AM  
Blogger matt said...

i was indeed going for a sense of disembodiment - however you would like to imagine that fleshing out is fine by me. the stanzas are not explicitly connected, and i am not sure i could even implicitly connect them for you, satisfactorily, aside from the rhythm i felt writing them.

sadly, i don't know enough marlowe to have made an allusion, but the line "says i, to myself" is from thoreau's journal. he says it should be the title of his journal (or theme, i don't remember, and i'm too lazy to go look up the post just now, over at the blog).

anyhow, i'm glad you liked it.


9:23 AM  
Anonymous RetroBerry said...

I like your work. This one...I love dandelions.
"Learn something from me, then,
says I, to myself." --- how often I have thought this after reading through something I wrote long ago, as if for that moment in the infinite future beyond the ink.

Well done. Thank you.

6:34 PM  

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