I, after difficult entry through my mother's blood
And stumbling childhood (hitting my head against the world);
I, intricate, easily unshipped, untracked, unaligned;
Cut off in my communications; stammering; speaking
A dialect shared by you, but not you and you;
I, strangely undeft, bereft; I searching always
For my lost rib (clothed in laughter yet understanding)
To come round the corner of Wardour Street into the Square
Or to signal across the Park and share my bed;
I, focus in night for star-sent beams of light,
I, fulcrum of levers whose end I cannot see…
Have this one deftness - that I admit undeftness:
Know that the stars are far, the levers long:
Can understand my unstrength.
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See, the first reading of this, I was like, "What?" So I read it again, this time aloud, and though it reads somewhat, in my view, like an instruction manual the sense in the piece is quite clear, I feel.
'I, after difficult entry though my mother's blood'
I feel this can be seen in a few ways. Such as conceiving, birth, or one giving blood to another. I feel the conceiving and birth part rings more accurate. Especially for the next line using the phrase 'stumbling childhood' and the paranthesis '(hitting my head against the world);'
The next line, is simplistic in thought. It reads as too many thoughts but only the one. And then it follows on on growing up in a childhood, in the life we all have somewhat grown up in, the spiel the awkwardness and evrything.
And the ending, seems, and I may be off, but, it seems the realisation of knowing one lives and thus though one does live, one as well dies.
That's my impression, I read this twice and that's what I come up with. I am sure it's wrong, or partially right, but, that's my impression of this piece.
His pieces, like mine I feel, do make one think.
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