Poem for the week -- “Grasses”:
Who
would decry
instruments—
when grasses
ever so fragile,
provide strings
stout enough for
insect moods
to glide up and down
in glissandos
of toes along wires
or finger-tips on zithers—
though
the mere sounds
be theirs, not ours—
theirs, not ours,
the first inspiration—
discord
without resolution—
who
would cry
being loved,
when even such tinkling
comes of the loving?
-- Alfred Kreymborg
Poetry can be such an alternate way of knowing, can’t it? And, what it can speak to — my, oh my!
