Saturday, November 18, 2023


An apparent aphasic
With a head full of language
That has no way to get out,

Not even the notation
That let Beethoven write down
Years of internal music—

Not immobile, not locked in,
Still capable of crying
Or whistling a wordless tune,

But incapable of speech
Or sign or written language
Except inside one’s own thoughts—

What would that be like to be,
The truest rumination,
Solitary confinement

In mental conversation,
In prayer that could only be
Answered by insanity?

Somewhere there’s a poetry
That will never be released,
The best for never being.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.