Jody's Notes
Maybe it's affectation. I think it might be. A straightforward almost flat-footed description of why we need something. Here's what can go wrong. Of course more than that is needed to make a conceit into a poem. But not that much more.
By the way, I wrote the first version of this poem a long time ago. A really long time ago. Early 1970s. But it's one of the few poems I was able to rewrite years later to my satisfaction. With most poems, I keep drifting away from them--over time--and then I can't rewrite them because I'm no longer able to hook into their ways of being. This isn't true of this poem. So, in a sense it's a temporal hybrid--forever out of chronological place. (At least as far as my development is concerned.)
This poem was included in my collection, The Lust for Blueprints--both editions.
For without their vigilance,
tears are grimy
and no one will offer a shoulder to cry on.
Blue eyes charm,
even without a face,
as anyone
who has played with marbles
will tell you.
But inflamed eyes
with their hinges clogged open
remind us of zombies.
It’s not entirely the color,
for everyone like to gaze
into a fireplace.
Think of it this way:
the fluttering of red wings over dying wood.
And again,
think of it this way:
the rustle of eyelids
blinking at everything.
© 1994, 2001 Jody Azzouni