The poem makes truth a little more disturbing,
like a good bra, lifts it and holds it out
in both hands. (In some of the flashier stores
there's a model with the hands stitched on, in red or black.)
Lately the world you wed, for want of such hands,
sags in the bed beside you like a tired wife.
For want of such hands, the face of the moon is bored,
the tree does not stretch and yearn, nor the groin tighten.
Devious or frank, in any case,
the poem is calculated to arouse.
Lean back and let its hands play freely on you:
there comes a moment, lifted and aroused,
when the two of you are equally beautiful.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
or, the Art of Sinking in Poetry (part i of an endless series). Sometimes you happen upon a poem whose basic metaphorical premise is just so badly misjudged that it's almost unbelievable. Case in point: "Hands," by Donald Finkel (not to be confused with Norman Finkelstein):
Posted by Mark Scroggins at 10:16 PM