Saturday, September 14, 2024

After Salter on Frost

First by means of sound,
No, rather, rhythm—
And within the head,

Not out in the air—
Poems first win us when
We’re still small children.

It’s almost tactile,
A kind of bumping
Over the train tracks,

But pleasurable,
Soft whackety-whack,
Keeps us coming back

For more physical
Encounters with lines
Of words we don’t know

As terms with meanings,
As reference points,
As explanations,

And don’t need to know—
Back when we could feel
The separation

Between poetry
And making meaning,
Between language felt

And language used for
Communication.
It was ok then

To have no idea
What the verses meant,
But brain barks backward,

Becoming carved
Away by living,
Steadily losing

The ability
To love the rhythms
That cloak their meanings.

Alright, what this means
May be important.
Parse first, but recall,

However bitter,
Poetry remains
Language carrying

Echoes still playing
Around, foolishly,
Within. To entrance

The old, backwards brain,
To keep it on track,
Maintain attention,

Even grief’s haunted
With ghostly rhythms,
Even protests chant,

Even massive prose
Buries unmarked grace
In wisdom’s garden.

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