A Song

A Poem by Mark Halliday

SONG OF THE I-SELF

The stupid I-self wakes in the morning
after a dream in which my mother could be seen
across the street walking in some serious sadness
in her youth perhaps six years before I was born
puzzled by some absence
and I don’t know what to do with this dream

I swing my feet to the floor
my bony feet faintly moist the body is humiliating
it prevents angelic dignity I move to the bathroom

each day the I-self pursues satisfactions that wither
what for what for
thirteen thousand days since listening to
“Pickin’ Up the Pieces” at 66 Benevolent Street
thirteen thousand days of adulthood
choosing in laziness and cowardice
to avoid learning enough about FORCES that shape these days

instead the I-self floats imagining
sex fame fame sex sex-fame fame-sex
but political science is boring
microbiology is boring economics is boring
even psychology as a discipline is boring
or so mutters the I-self

thirteen thousand days --
each in a better world would build into a dignity of --
at least of seeking –

one night eight years ago in Morgantown, West Virginia
Doug Goetsch and I shot hoops in the dark
and made some astounding three-pointers
though our percentage was low
and later on the steps with Tracy Williams there was
a long real talk
and later in the hall willowy Mary Ruth
glancing back over her shoulder

O stupid I-self afloat outside a series of dreams
long may you bobble!


© Mark Halliday, 2007

Comments

[Katy]

this, 'it prevents angelic dignity I move to the bathroom', made me smile. Sometimes you happen upon stuff and it seems at just the right time, and you realise that you will inevitably always keep going back to poems and the poem-writers, and that to try to work out exactly why may be an interesting thing, but most probably futile, because language to describe what someone else has done with language so often seems to fail. I suppose this is when the poking the poem onto whichever friend 'must' know occurs. I'll get some more of his work :)

[Mark]

I don't hate the poem, "Song of the I-Self". But there is something too bald about it. Too obvious. It's like a sweet fuddled guy who has drunk three pale ales rapidly and wants to be very, very honest with you. This poet uses capital letters ("FORCES") where he half-consciously senses that he has neglected to imagine his subject intensely. It's like the guy in the pub using volume to compensate for lack of articulation. Still, as the poem's author, I don't hate the poem; and I love Katy for her comment on June 15. We could talk, at a pub, before we die.

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