poetryrepairs 15.07:082

PETER KROK : "OUT . . ."

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(Three Voices in Four Parts) He is haunted by a demon, a demon against which he feels powerless, because in its first manifestation it has not face, no name, nothing; and the words, the poems he makes, are a kind of . . . exorcism of this demon[.] T. S. Eliot The Three Demons i
Bits of life are smeared on the walls of their pages. But nothing appeases. They are haunted by a demon, lured by voices of desire, whispers in the night, sounds, shadows, echoes demanding more and more and more, bending nerves a snap nearer.
Sappho, hearing the cries echoing from the rocks, flung her life into the tide. Poe lost his way chasing the black bird whistling in the dark. Crane plunged his final obsession into the Gulf. Thomas tolled until his voice cracked. Sylvia sprawled in the darkness leaving others to ponder the rage. Hearing voices on the road, Jarrell slipped and couldn’t make it to the other side.. Sexton roamed the moonlight until the wind left her breath. Berryman cast his tongue into the river leaving only the sound of his shadow.
There is a tide where once seized by the current, there is no anchor only the rushing down, down, down the raging torrent until finally you drop. They were at that current which drags down to the depths.
I am the ravisher of the rose, the termite of the night that gnaws into the fragile sap of the poet's skull, the Demon of More that grins at the silver madness in the poet’s eyes. I am the poet's possessed ear beckoning from the cliffs of Lesbos to the Mexikan Gulf from the flats of London to the Lorelei where heads crack against the rocks and spray their echoes across the Rhine.

poetryrepairs #215: 15.07:082

"OUT . . ." 

(dedicated to Reetika Vazirani)
Like dust The dark falls. A gypsy moth pangs Against the light fixture. The Black Label sweats On the coffee table. She leans At the edge Locked in Her own silence. Tomorrow Lies so far. The hurt cuts The hours And Her life.

poetryrepairs #215: 15.07:082

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appeared in LIPS [FALL 2006]