Knotness of One

Knotness of One

A Poem by gram linski

Windless
rainless
watching
invisible movies
thinking
unthinkable thoughts
warming my hands
upon
invisible candles
listening
imagined sounds
and fading
with the 
leather and denim
of life
in a ghost
and phantom
of presence
no mark
or shadow
of the sinking
and sailing
of time
upon the ether
and metaphor
of me
stainless
stolen
broken
noise
a gift of
blue trumpets
in bones

© 2020 gram linski


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The dreaming drought of self where everything and nothing exists. In imagination we become whatever we want or most don't want to be...according to where the mind leads.

Again, the loneliness of the modern human-animal strikes me in this. So much of literature in the 20th and 21st century speaks to the alienation of the man who is, in fact, surrounded. The paradox of modern living that drains so many of the gurgle of inward passion that keeps us looking at life as something worthy of moving forward with.

I like the way your format presents this order then chaos feeling as one side is perfectly straight and solid and the other continually alternates creating this jagged edge. The long single stanza effectively prolonging the feeling and connecting all of the ideas and keeping us there is the sense of driving and pulling back. Like a continual stop/start and then this light fade of an ending with the blue trumpets in bones.

Man, I like that ending. It is so evocative but also elusive. It makes me think of smoky jazz that meanders and feels like it may never end. And the mind gets lost there. Wondering if there is a road that leads to the settling of what a body calls home. Great poetry, Gram.

Posted 2 Weeks Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

gram linski

2 Weeks Ago

thanks so much, Eilis, aye there does seem to be a lot of that all alone in a crowded room literatur.. read more



Reviews

Pretty much, Eilis has so eloquently expressed what this write does and where it takes the reader.
Sinking and/or sailing within our own selves...when we get outside of ourselves we are like
specters...wondering if we are real...is there a self that exists outside the innate self...yes, i do believe.
Outside looking in at our hearts and souls...
we are our own metaphor...and it is stainless...by the end of our lives, it might either stay that way
or become irrelevant ...stained, or broken...
I am of an age that I am hearing those Blue Trumpets..
in my bones.
j.

Posted 2 Weeks Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

gram linski

2 Weeks Ago

thanks for the great review, j. thought your line about looking in at our own hearts and soul was gr.. read more
The dreaming drought of self where everything and nothing exists. In imagination we become whatever we want or most don't want to be...according to where the mind leads.

Again, the loneliness of the modern human-animal strikes me in this. So much of literature in the 20th and 21st century speaks to the alienation of the man who is, in fact, surrounded. The paradox of modern living that drains so many of the gurgle of inward passion that keeps us looking at life as something worthy of moving forward with.

I like the way your format presents this order then chaos feeling as one side is perfectly straight and solid and the other continually alternates creating this jagged edge. The long single stanza effectively prolonging the feeling and connecting all of the ideas and keeping us there is the sense of driving and pulling back. Like a continual stop/start and then this light fade of an ending with the blue trumpets in bones.

Man, I like that ending. It is so evocative but also elusive. It makes me think of smoky jazz that meanders and feels like it may never end. And the mind gets lost there. Wondering if there is a road that leads to the settling of what a body calls home. Great poetry, Gram.

Posted 2 Weeks Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

gram linski

2 Weeks Ago

thanks so much, Eilis, aye there does seem to be a lot of that all alone in a crowded room literatur.. read more

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2 Reviews
Added on June 19, 2020
Last Updated on June 19, 2020

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gram linski
gram linski

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" If I lose the light of Sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light, if I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls, I will write, always " H. Rollins more..

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A Poem by gram linski