October 6th, 2001

Loon

OK ... one more thing ...

I've seen things you people couldn't believe
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion
I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near Tannhauser gate
All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain

Time to die



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Loon

Interesting ...

I have seen this slip into my writing of late ... the "I/me/mine" which has always been "generalized out" of my poems. Since most of my poetry has been "statements of states", the logs of inner journeys through that putrid nightmare of my life, things have always been at a remove ... not me, not mine, just "there", stardate 2001. However, I see personal statements coming in now ... which is interesting in light of an article I'd read dealing with poetry and poets and how the particular phrasing can offer insight as to where the poet actually "is" psychologically. The suggestion of the piece was that when the poems drift deep into "I" territory, that's when things tend to go all "Sylvia Plath" in the real world. Not a big surprise here, I guess ...



                    AT THE POINT OF EXECUTION


                    the substance varies
                    between forgetting and dread
                    how sweet the forgetting
                    how horrid the dread
                    we can hardly function
                    in either state
                    being lost or distraught
                    empty or drained

                    there seems no hope
                    no way to change
                    the status of the zone
                    the only change comes brutal
                    kicking down the door
                    and ravaging the place
                    which has been our only true home
                    our only refuge

                    I feel so ill
                    tainted by the loss
                    and by the promise
                    of all the losses
                    so surely yet to come
                    I stare into this void
                    and see no exit
                    no way that I survive

                    all that I know
                    all things for which I care
                    are threatened now
                    more than threatened
                    they wait their execution
                    as though in line
                    to climb the platform
                    for the guillotine's blade

                    and how can I
                    stand here and watch
                    the massacring of my world?
                    my feet are bound
                    my hands are tied
                    I can not act to save a one ...
                    why can't I die
                    and not be put through this?



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                10/05/2001

                    Copyright © 2001 by Brendan Tripp
 
 



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Loon

Oh, lucky you!

Yeah, here we go with another back-to-back poem posting day! A veritable double-header of despair!

As I've noted previously, I get to write when I get some time with idle hands away from my computer (yeah, I know about "the Devil's work") ... and today it was while Daughter #1 had her swim class. No "Plath Factor" today, though, but it's hardly any less poisonous than what's come before ...


                    IN THIS ABATTOIR


                    so much fear
                    so much pain
                    these days descend
                    in spirals of destruction
                    all things we have
                    are stripped away
                    all things we know
                    obliterated maliciously

                    what can we keep
                    of who we are?
                    every symbol
                    is erased
                    every touchstone
                    ground to dust
                    every icon
                    shattered and denied

                    this time churns on
                    a juggernaut
                    which swallows up
                    all our strength
                    and leaves us empty
                    unable to strive
                    unable to seek
                    the path which leads away

                    no futures promise
                    anything but agony
                    either agonies of days despised
                    within old chains, once cast away
                    or agonies of impoverishment
                    of losing all the things
                    we've ever had or cared for
                    while clutching to our dreams

                    this world hates dreams
                    and ignores all prayer
                    it despises dreamers
                    and those who strive
                    for finer stuff than this;
                    it seeks our death
                    and our debasing
                    hard and brutal, evil, vile



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                10/06/2001

                    Copyright © 2001 by Brendan Tripp
 
 



visit my home page