The color of deep russet orange.
That’s okay. We’ll muddle through.
I think we’ll keep on imploring
the higher, all-powerful one,
the elusive, keep-all-the-cards-
hidden one; the cynical versus
humorous one; would I go as far as
to say–capricious, clever one!
These poems, where did they come
from? Long ago, even she, my forebear,
might have written them. There they
were buried beneath plaster, covered
by perspex, just a layer deep. You’ve
to scrape through dirt. What you’ve
practiced–with bare hands, a tool–for
a while. Wedged, preserved, found.
Prompt: We look upon objects as artefacts. They embody cultural meaning. Words are artefacts too. Okay, poems I’m thinking of. Have you ever wondered, considering the infinity of poems one is capable of, where the heck they come from? Is there in fact a collective unconscious as Yeats believed? That we could retrieve this pool of meaning through reading, isn’t that marvellous? How the hell are we supposed to retrieve than through reading and writing, you tell me? So reflect upon all I have said. Write, see what you’ve retrieved.