Quaver: A Poem

Monday, November 28, 2011

Throughout the many iterations of the novel I yesterday finished writing (and, oh well, yes, I admit, I was working on it at 3 AM today), a single poem has been my guide—a piece I wrote a few years ago.  This poem doesn't appear in the book.  But its ghost will always hover. 


Now you understand
everything. How it was never
what he said or how he listened,
never his inviolable timekeeping,
or the caution: Leave me
to what I am, to my idea
of the intransitive.

It wasn’t the way he kept
the birds in seed
or how the hours idled
in the architecture
of his afternoons,
or how, through it all,
he resolved,
or I should say countered,

It was color.
It was the way
intimation came to him,
and shade,
the way possibilities
roamed a glissade
but would not settle.
His assertion of quaver.


Melissa Sarno said...

I'm even more intrigued...

Serena said...

Gorgeous. I'm sure this poem will speak in the novel in its own way.

Michael G-G said...

I love the idea of a novel nourished by a poem, and bravo for finishing through many iterations. I also love the sound of "The End."

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