For William Carlos Williams...

 

On the paper-white slim screen

I watch the weaving of waves

and listen, tortured, as the words

fall upon my long suffering ears.

I am distressed by this nasal tone,

rambling, adenoidal, penetrating.

 

I seek in vain his hidden genius,

as he burbles on and on, and on.

His verses crash heedlessly and

continuously one into another -

like a rainy weekend pile up on

the holiday interstate highway.

 

Nothing separates. Nothing defines.

Nothing survives these fatal crashes,

his splintered similes, or that voice.

I move the curser and click on delete.

The screen surrenders to winter snow,

and the speakers fall mercifully silent.

 

End Note: In re-mastering a tape recording of a great American poet, I found an unexpected dimension in pain.

 

That Voice © Dermott Ryder

 

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