Jody's Notes
(September 22, 2012)
This turned out to be a bit weird.
I wrote this poem at the same time I wrote "Loss of Perspective." They involve similar themes--misapprehensions about the cosmos (let's put it that way) that are being exhibited by cave folk (or by people kind of like cave folk).
I've written other poems with this theme too. Now that I think about it. Quite a few other poems. I seem to be worried about this. For some reason.
Here's the weird part. This poem was accepted by Twilight Ending, but when it was published, the editor published a rewritten version of the poem--rewritten by her--the poem ending with a rainstorm, instead of without one.
Without my permission. And here's something else that's weird. When you think about it, I mean. What was she was intending to convey? That it's okay to sacrifice people because sometimes the weather rewards you if you do that? (I can't believe that would be what she would want to convey, or that she would want to give the impression that I want to convey.)
I just don't know.
But this is true. People get so emotional about the weather, have you noticed this? They always did (it's not just because the weather, lately, is particularly ominous). People get so emotional that they're willing to cross all sorts of ethical lines. Over the weather. Among other things, I guess.
I try to keep the weather in perspective: that it's just like the ocean and other really really big things: it's not talking to us or talking back to us (even if it seems like it is), and even if what it's like (now) is our fault.
By the way, the editor did something else to the poem too. (Also without my permission.) She changed the title to: The sky is the limit. Ears. Have you noticed this, that not everyone has ears?
It rains.
It snows.
It’s sunny.
But the timing is invariably off.
At first we talk back reasonably,
spit here and there
to demonstrate how it should go,
bang on a few drums
to give it a feel for the rhythm.
It doesn’t listen.
So we look around
for something a bit more dramatic,
pile up a few stacks of quiet rock,
dress up a daughter or two
in the latest herbs and spices,
cook the result up top.
It still doesn’t listen.
© 2001 Jody Azzouni