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Linda Gregerson (August 5, 1950 / Illinois)
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Ex Machina
When love was a question, the message arrived
in the beak of a wire and plaster bird. The coloratura
was hardly to be believed. For flight,
it took three stagehands: two
on the pulleys and one on the flute. And you
thought fancy rained like grace.
Our fog machine lost in the Parcel Post, we improvised
with smoke. The heroine dies of tuberculosis after all.
Remorse and the raw night air: any plausible tenor
might cough. The passions, I take my clues
from an obvious source, may be less like climatic events
than we conventionalize, though I’ve heard
of tornadoes that break the second-best glassware
and leave everything else untouched.
There’s a finer conviction than seamlessness
elicits: the Greeks knew a god
by the clanking behind his descent.
The heart, poor pump, protests till you’d think
it’s rusted past redemption, but
there’s tuning in these counterweights,
celebration’s assembled voice.
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I love how every sentence seems to go down different turn’s ad avenues and I am never sure what way she is going to go. This could mean anything and its interpretation can be whatever the reader can see, it reminds me of Atwood but even more demented. It’s all in the title, as anyone knows it was conventional for Greek plays to have a supernatural being come in and act as a device to resolve the plot of stories, in other words contrived endings, for me this seems to be about the contrivances of relations but then that just one view point. Whatever it is Its beautifully composed
Darkness p[ermeates everthing today, and then it is called Arte
Darkness invades everthing today and then it is called arte
With all due respect,
Nothing of this, did I get.
Sorry
Talk about what should be perfect ends up being tortuous labor, a mess, but not giving up because of imperfections, concurring and enjoying the fruits of labor. i think.