Yes, it's that time again -- time for you to fall in love with a new poem. This one is exquisite.
Machines
by Michael Donaghy
Dearest, note how these two are alike:
This harpsicord pavane by Purcell
And the racer's twelve-speed bike.
The machinery of grace is always simple.
This chrome trapezoid, one wheel connected
To another of concentric gears,
Which Ptolemy dreamt of and Schwinn perfected,
Is gone. The cyclist, not the cycle, steers.
And in the playing, Purcell's chords are played away.
So this talk, or touch if I were there,
Should work its effortless gadgetry of love,
Like Dante's heaven, and melt into the air.
If it doesn't, of course, I've fallen. So much is chance,
So much agility, desire, and feverish care,
As bicyclists and harpsicordists prove
Who only by moving can balance,
Only by balancing move.
2 comments:
This is amazing. I've loved all the entries in this series, but this one in particular... exquisite is right. Wow.
You have made a convert of me. I think the problem may be the word... poetry. It is too laden with bad connotations. Maybe rebrand the entire effort something like Words in Motion (Wim), with this lovely and extraordinary poem, I mean Wim, as the first opening salvo.
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