Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Daniel Yaryan


An empty revolver’s smoke
Lay upon the ghost town of seasonal cheer
All the bullets are shot
No one left to kill…

Even with shopping carts in aisles
Ramming ankles of civilians
Seeking half-off calendars
When the spirit is going, going, gone…

Spellbound by slashed prices
Until the trance is broken
Money-shot galleries of frivolity
Leave whores wandering – stranded in empty rows

Shadows of the new west
Flee in modern stagecoach stature sleds
Across boxy plains
Streams of faded memories dance

Sounds rattle
From invisible fingers
On rickety keys
Upon the abandoned saloon piano of our consciousness

1 comment:

  1. from Phil Turner:

    Not bad. The tragedy of it is that the final line is so poweful that it annihilates the rest of the poem -- the body was not strong enough to hold up the head, like Poe's opium infested corpus was too weak in the end to keep his massive head in the world at hand any longer. I would never have dreamed of such a brilliant idea coming at the end of an ostensibly nostalgic poem. The language needs some work -- the rule is this: if a poem is strong enough in its ideas (like Basho's cicada Haiku) then the language may be simple or even basic since it does what it needed to -- convey the poet's idea; but if the idea is weak then the language must be magical to discover little jewels of accidental provenance in an otherwise barren land.