Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Anthony McCann

The surface is quiet; I’m suffering joy

Silently weeping she sniffed at my hair

All the blood, together, spilled from my face

May happy precision inflect your whole fate


“What have you done?” our someone exclaimed

You shrieked as though you’d stabbed me yourself

It was weird; being there, with the rocks and the trees

I leapt from the platform into your arms


You gazed down through the branches, the flowers, to me

I saw myself stumble from two miles out

When I opened the door you leapt into my arms

All the water spilled from my body at once


I was happy, adrift, in the spectacle fires

When I opened my mouth little bodies came out

In my dream there were dogs, blue feathers and dread

The cops filmed our wounds while we strolled in the park


As the city acquired a specialty light

As each night we watched the light drain from its wound

I can’t really imagine what anything’s like

But at times I’m compelled to recall how I felt





This poem by Anthony McCann marries music and language, but (in my opinion) in opposition. The images clash with the meter in an unnerving, uncertain way. While there is a discernible narrative or subject, this doesn't matter; what matters is how through the relationship between music and image creates something more important than linear or reductible content. The author replicates his experience for the reader with the immediacy of musical, visual language, without necessary critical, cognitive processes. What would Nietzsche think? I'm not sure, but, here, I see the restrained dream-image and ecstasy becoming an object, purpose, and experience beyond cognitive understanding, rooted in a different human realm close to awe.

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