My comment on a poem by Stephen Collis

your poem is a rebus in the making yet its borders have conceded to walls coercing the closed minded to see from one perspective even streets have changing rectangles and different aspects of listening depending on traffic, dogs, children, rain listening was an art form from the time of animal creation there is no limit to how we hear, see, touch and move

what is knowledge? what do we know we know? to hear meaning of a piece of music begins with a hand touching keys or strings or valves creating a ruby or a pearl within the tensile muscles within the incessant sibilants of rhythm becoming vowels of syntax without words which then hint at those unknowing intervals creating lyrics to messages we can translate better than original words

age brings us many more facets to that meaning each time I hear what I have heard before it becomes increasingly a palimpsest of phrases with new insights I sense the composer's arms, head, breaths hands tensing and releasing in complex pulses rises and falls as codes are created my ears begin to stroke the intervals and smell minute differences of pressure within each precise measure of space within time. within the rows of chairs and between each listener repeated phrases become new sensory events

rooms vanish or rise or stretch to new journeys boundaries from the prelude have synthesized into an eternal universe

Diane Stevenson Schmolka

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FIRST SKETCH OF A POEM I WILL NOT HAVE WRITTEN
by Stephen Collis

At borders, frontiers, reaching into the historical moment of listening to insurrection and speech / spur and limit in place of the street / we have Facebook Google is a universe we No longer have to search the limits of the revolutionary subject lies elsewhere can we revive? Make a small table set in verse a vocal reaching out to, (and much else allowed to sinew strength in solidarity as in digital life we are dead as bodies already and almost unthinkable technological waste accrues the pop songs tell us nothing but the nothing we have always needed to know so why not nuestra arma / nuestra palabra

and what is poetry if money is information? Cold last night, brain in its envelope, sealed the struggle for the end of roles rolling on (the black cap chickadees taking it up at dawn and sometimes David when I say politics I mean poetics swing low Campanera. Missing. Cellphone. Rift. Blank. Space. Rosebud. What body is general? Autonomous? Grass. Roots. Bit. Torrent. Detainees. No one. Illegal. identity and difference / singular plural

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