You don't read poetry, you say? This will change your mind. Read in a quiet corner, read it out loud to your friends, read it even louder in the town square.Take it out into the world where it belongs. Where you belong.
Near by Jan Zwicky
It arrives. The far dream
that terrified us—that put the steel
in our forearms, and we woke each morning
to its distant shuddering—
is far no more. Heavy-limbed, it sprawls
across the daylight, brushes back
the damp hair from our foreheads, stares
and laughs. And the axle of our will
is seized, the wheel splintered, an engine
that does not, does not
turn, and when we go below decks, find
it is missing, a hollow, a dark sift
of emptiness, and the ferry is slammed
against its moorings, helpless, the contagion spreading,
and the one who knows, the one who has been readied,
is absent from the table.
Near is the hard grief, the grief
from the pit, whose hands shake, which cannot find
the knife, which cannot stand, or kneel, or lie,
the grief that is tearless, that gags.
The clearcut, the dead zone, the gas-contaminated
well, the salt earth, the foreign
investment protection, the child soldier,
the rape, the spin, the addiction
to speed, the saving of labour, the image,
the image, the image, the image,
the genetic modification, the electromagnetic
field, the sense of entitlement, greed. The present
is thick-lipped and stunned; it sweats. The voice
of the century is a wild clanking, a loose stink that lifts
and settles in our mouths. Did you raise your hand? Did you
say something? Louder. Louder.
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