I put a high value on sonic qualities in poetry. I’m all for essays and strories, even broken into lines, but stubbornly hold that poetry as such involves the practice of an internal, personal gematria, if you will, that sound has meaning in Chaucer or Louis Armstrong. It’s easy today to go seeking intellectual discussion in every poem. It’s fun, but I think Slatesters can get lost in the woods parsing forests/trees. Hey, it’s one of my guilty pleasures.
But poetry is art. Plot is just one element. That painting of the Dutch girl with the pitcher, what’s that supposed to mean? That Picasso sketch of the chicken is im-parse-able as Issa. I am pleased to see a poem here so moody.
OK, then? What does it mean? On top a young man walks down a lively street, then visits an older person in a motionless hospital, then decides to lead a healthier life. The older person may be himself. That’s enough plot line to appreciate the quickness with which the poet sketches the three moods here, the third a synthesis of/response to the first two.
For me, then, this works. I find the songlike qualities refreshing. The surface gleams but I'd say it's not superficial. If people tire of my griping about something missing in much current poetry, I must say (aside): Thanks, Robert, for presenting an example of what I’m looking for when I say that.
I’d suggest it really gets into method.
Speaking of guilty pleasures…I like that Sheryl Crow song more than most I’ve heard her sing.
