All the years trying to explain
the spirit's wish, this wishing tree,
dropping seeds foolishly upon
common ground, this life,uprooted,
carried for meaningless distances,
groaning in thirst.
Is there a center to the emptiness,
a place where all the nonsense
becomes relevant?
Will I ever see anyone as they are?
Will anyone ever see me?
Sometimes truth is bearable.
It proves its worth . . . The delusions
drift apart and the sun bursts
through the seams, The heart is alone -
in every conversation the unspoken
haunting the fragile distances
of the Unspeakable, voice falling back
upon silence.
It strikes me that every seed
must surrender, crack open and die
into Life , , ,
"Is there a center to the emptiness,
a place where all the nonsense
becomes relevant?"
A question, Kevin, right at the heart
of things...we may well have to die
to know the meaning of living..and your
final line leads to that, i feel.
This made me sit up and pay full attention,
good writing does that.
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
Using Calgary as a backdrop the author satirizes the self-serving nature of the public as it continues to fatten itself, not only physically, but egotistically as well.
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a place where all the nonsense
becomes relevant?"
A question, Kevin, right at the heart
of things...we may well have to die
to know the meaning of living..and your
final line leads to that, i feel.
This made me sit up and pay full attention,
good writing does that.
John