About B.’s ears, mainly
figurative, which is good since nothing could be less interesting than this guy’s
ears. His actual hearing was dulled from a childhood disease, so there’s that. But
it’s his metaphoric “ear” for rhythm and language that is engaging enough. From
the moment he was born, he was a writer: “when Henry keen & viable // began
to poke his head from Venus’ foam, / toward the grand shore, where all them
ears would be / if any. / Thus his art started.” The rest of his body disintegrated
as he lived—cracked and broken, as we’ve seen, and of course partially pickled.
But in the end “Only his ears sat with his theme / in the splices of his pride.”
A couple double entendres in the last line there—“splices” probably referring
to his unorthodox punctuation, and “pride” with both the positive and negative
meanings in play, hubris on one hand, but accomplishment on the other. A confessional
poem through and through.
Here’s a really good poem about
ears: http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/ear-organ-made-love
Shall I try one too? Sounds good!
Music
to Her Ears
These fleshy horns show best when
hidden
Underneath her hair, though as a
scaffold
For jewels on a woman, they’ll
hold
My gaze a moment, not unbidden
If she hangs them there. But ears
Are not so much to glow with splendor
The soft of sheening pearls, but
more
To take the splendor in. She hears
The lonesome hoot-owl’s nightlong
throes—
Guitars—a reverent amen—
Plaints of melancholy love, like when
The Beach Boys sing “God Only Knows.”
KZ
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