Attention And Interpretation Poem by John Wilkinson
Attention And Interpretation
A treatise divides between its several heads, yellow
safe as its green is matter-of-fact, ladies-mantle
bunched lustrous jar, converges & is close to oceanic -
No more no more. The earth bread, the millet, maize,
the repeated cattle voluble as though on cranes' legs,
where shall these be put? A telephone put its reply
summarily before a priest calling, stands & clicks
divining-bones like callipers, adjusted so as to nod
agreement but in a separate context. It is a protocol
followed by true, farsighted men. Their fine yellow
hegemony spreads, in pollen unconstrained but keeping
bounds, lilts towards the future thought to include
a number of specifics. Take the colourful antidote
to irony, the sexual check on starvation, shuttles of
feverish remedies would swerve through roseate water
plump the little object I which wallowed & withered
& wallowed again on the lam like an ECHO virus; take
that ragamuffin seeds & multiplies, cursed to remain
orphaned ever within its own likenesses - it is clear,
is it not, is it not, is it not, blue heaven sweats.
About...confluence and separation? Mankind's conundrum. The frothy lady's mantle is a good container plant. Dear me, I will have to read this over and over.
This is so magically beautiful and lyrical. It is experience itself, condensed, not sense, but certainly not nonsense, not the playful nonsense of childhood (which is all sense, all exploration, perfect interpretation of identity, everything being exactly what it is (that I say it is, without question)) , the senses that run through the mind to make sense of what are senses attend to. Attention, a tension between the world out there and the world inside the tent on the top of the head. Parataxis as the natural state of the wonderment in world under the big top. Language as an act of re-imagining language not as object but as science and art simultaneously impinging on the electrical grid of spontaneity. Interpretation as pretense for getting into the interstitial spaces of a vast an wholly incomprehensible dispensation of the infinite. This guy's a friggin' keeper. Loosen your tie and untie your shoes, or tie the laces together without worry of falling, the only way to go from here is up. Both the oxygen itself and the lack of it are intoxicating. Drink deeply.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 2:23:00 AM # 1.0.0.1119
John Wilkinson's poem is an agreement in separate contexts and a treatise divided into several heads.