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Let Me Weep This Time

What a delight to hear former Portsmouth Poet Laureate Robert Dunn recite from memory his philosophical poems at the January Hoot.  And what a treat to have Robert preceded by Tanya Gold, whose engaging, sensual poems in French and English captivated the audience.  
After the break, among the many fine poems read was this piece by Trina Daigle:


Let Me Weep This Time


Time stopped the day after Christmas
There was no longer time no longer enough time
Just time enough to be swept under
Swept and kept under by some kind of dark enormous weight
No room to breathe no place to go the chorus says Wait The angels sing Wait
There are places to go and people to see you see I know I know
This time belongs to infinity’s time where time can wrap or warp
Weave or wave without anyone knowing without anyone anyone
Still in stillness all goes around and around but time’s run out
No room no room in the inn no room on the bus the jet
No room at the top of the tree roof food chain
No room in the mitten the one last cricket setting her foot on the cuff
No room to spare no time no room to breathe to spare
No people see there’s people to find not enough time people to see
Where’s Jane where’s John what happened what happened to Uncle Albert
The roar so long the second hand swept by the sweep of an arm
And the chorus says it’s late it’s late The angels Wait The angels
Gotta hang on gotta hang tight to a watch that’s dead in the dead of the night
There’s no more time no room to weep no room no breath to weep this time

                                   --Trina Daigle


I’m reminded of those liner notes on the LP jacket of Another Side of Bob Dylan.   Also, Ferlinghetti’s numbers “15” and “29” in A Coney Island of the Mind. Music—rhythm, rhyme, flowing off the page from no immediately discernable form. The meaning’s in the sound before it hits the sense.  We have to say these poems aloud, and over again, to get the feel for their figures.  They flow from the oral tradition, which is the source of all poetry.  Here, the subject is the speaker—and she’s running out of time. Out of oxygen.  The repetitions, the
building length of the lines, and the lack of punctuation combine to overwhelm the lungs before they flood the mind.  To recite this poem aloud is to be swept up in a wave of emotion—we experience the great dark weight upon us before we realize our plight. Suddenly, we are conscious of being submerged, pummeled by the currents of the clock.   No room to breathe, to spare.  Not breath enough to weep.
                                                                                                         --JP

“Let Me Weep This Time” copyright Trina Daigle, 2005.   Trina teaches at the
Exeter Day School.  Her poems have appeared in The Vineyard Gazette, Byline, and
Sidelines.  She resides in Newmarket, NH.

                       
Please note: the Poetry Hoot is on the first Wednesday of every month at Cafe Espresso in the 800 Plaza, Portsmouth, NH.   Note: Poems submitted to this column should not exceed nineteen lines.