In The Year 2666
for Roberto Bolaño
After three wrong turns, a tractor and a flat
You're at The House Of Vanished Writers
After all, that was always your destination
You park your unreviewed car and go right in
Sitting and waiting, smoking and watching
Joe, the Indian, who never could get started
Sophia, who once was beautiful, great shorts
No power to stay long enough on the page
Fred, whose fiction fried like a skillet, killed it
And you, who are merely visiting, get a key
A towel and the schedule of daily readings
Who are these happy people you are thinking
Why do they look at me like that? One part pen
One part the next event, one part is wind
Where did all the vanished writers go?
When did they write their perfect poems
Who said they'd had enough and could leave?
Your room has a limited view of the forest
It is possible the birds will sing there again
Second seating meal is vegetable soup with bread
Dessert is an autumn ice cream you don't remember
Afterwards the word games and the music upset you.
© 2010 Rob Schackne
I like this poem, although the last line seems to kill the momentum, or perhaps, the moment. Intriguing poem, nonetheless.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your comment, Christi. I wanted to suggest a diminishing momentum. It seems that I succeeded...and glad that it continues to intrigue.
ReplyDeleteI like the wryness.
ReplyDelete