puisi inggris - Objectophile

Objectophile

sam sax

everyone knows about the woman who fell in love with the bridge
but no one cares how the bridge felt after.
everyone knows about the poet who leapt from the deck of a ship
but not how the boat lifted & bloated in his wake like a white infant
spread over the bed of a lake.
we leave our objects behind us. we collect our dead’s leavings & listen
for their breathing in the soft mouths of gloves. we believe them.
i care too much & still have the dead boy’s red sweater. i tongue
the wound. i tender this mule. i unravel quick my flesh debt.
every word an object in my dark wet house. everyone asks after
the living but no one cares how the cotton sobs in my mouth.
i am become warehouse               :             i am destroy speech.
everyone knows the poet fell from the bridge because he jumped.
no one cares there’s nothing left for us but his poems
not even a simple plaque drilled into the bridge’s throat reads :
     this is where the man lived
     this is where the man broke
     this is the man
     this is the man stretched
     between two cold cities
     you are standing
     on his back.


READ MORE by sam sax: 

•  bury-sam-sax-im-interested-in-death

Objectophile

sam sax

everyone knows about the woman who fell in love with the bridge
but no one cares how the bridge felt after.
everyone knows about the poet who leapt from the deck of a ship
but not how the boat lifted & bloated in his wake like a white infant
spread over the bed of a lake.
we leave our objects behind us. we collect our dead’s leavings & listen
for their breathing in the soft mouths of gloves. we believe them.
i care too much & still have the dead boy’s red sweater. i tongue
the wound. i tender this mule. i unravel quick my flesh debt.
every word an object in my dark wet house. everyone asks after
the living but no one cares how the cotton sobs in my mouth.
i am become warehouse               :             i am destroy speech.
everyone knows the poet fell from the bridge because he jumped.
no one cares there’s nothing left for us but his poems
not even a simple plaque drilled into the bridge’s throat reads :
     this is where the man lived
     this is where the man broke
     this is the man
     this is the man stretched
     between two cold cities
     you are standing
     on his back.


READ MORE by sam sax: 

•  bury-sam-sax-im-interested-in-death

• • puisi_5
  • puisi
  • trans-orbital-lobotomy

puisi inggris - Bury

Bury

sam sax

i’m interested in death rituals.
maybe that’s a weird thing to say.
when i say interested i mean,
i’ve compiled a list.
on it are mourning practices
gathered across time & continents
it’s long & oddly comforting
how no one knows a damn thing
about what follows. i wont
share it with you, only say,
evidence suggests neanderthals
were the first hominids to bury
their dead. also, i’ll say they
didn’t possess a written language,
which points toward internment
as a form of document. the body
is ink in the earth. the grave marker,
a gathering together of text.
the first written languages were
pictorial & marked the movement
of goods between peoples.
i don’t know what to do with that
but pretend death’s a similar kind
of commerce: face stamped
into a coin, what’s left of the body
in the belly of a bird, two lines
that meet to make a man
alive again on paper. i know i know,
ashes to ashes & all that dust
to irreverent dust. i know everyone
i love who’s dead didn’t actually
become the poem i wrote about them.
their breath a caught fathered
object thrashing in the white space
between letters. contrary to popular
belief elephants don’t actually bury
their dead lacking the necessary
shovels & opposable thumbs rather
they are known to throw leaves
& dirt upon the deceased & this
is a kind of language. often the tusks
from dead elephants are scrivened
into the shapes of smaller elephants
& sold to travelers who might display
this tragic simulacrum upon
their mantel as a symbol of power
& of passage. when i’m gone, make me again
from my hair. carry me with you
a small book in your pocket.

Bury

sam sax

i’m interested in death rituals.
maybe that’s a weird thing to say.
when i say interested i mean,
i’ve compiled a list.
on it are mourning practices
gathered across time & continents
it’s long & oddly comforting
how no one knows a damn thing
about what follows. i wont
share it with you, only say,
evidence suggests neanderthals
were the first hominids to bury
their dead. also, i’ll say they
didn’t possess a written language,
which points toward internment
as a form of document. the body
is ink in the earth. the grave marker,
a gathering together of text.
the first written languages were
pictorial & marked the movement
of goods between peoples.
i don’t know what to do with that
but pretend death’s a similar kind
of commerce: face stamped
into a coin, what’s left of the body
in the belly of a bird, two lines
that meet to make a man
alive again on paper. i know i know,
ashes to ashes & all that dust
to irreverent dust. i know everyone
i love who’s dead didn’t actually
become the poem i wrote about them.
their breath a caught fathered
object thrashing in the white space
between letters. contrary to popular
belief elephants don’t actually bury
their dead lacking the necessary
shovels & opposable thumbs rather
they are known to throw leaves
& dirt upon the deceased & this
is a kind of language. often the tusks
from dead elephants are scrivened
into the shapes of smaller elephants
& sold to travelers who might display
this tragic simulacrum upon
their mantel as a symbol of power
& of passage. when i’m gone, make me again
from my hair. carry me with you
a small book in your pocket.

puisi inggris - reason

Post-Diagnosis

sam sax

REASON                /               UNREASON

the brain is               

           an unlit synagogue 

easily charted             

           in dark waters

using machines          

           it can baffle faith

& therapy      

           it can asphyxiate

don’t worry               

           the drowning dogs

your pretty head        

           painted for the gods

it’s simple                  

           to rage & riot & rot

to manage                  

           the vacant parking lot

with the appropriate   

           knives   do what some

medicines                  

           can not

Post-Diagnosis

sam sax

REASON                /               UNREASON

the brain is                

           an unlit synagogue 

easily charted              

           in dark waters

using machines           

           it can baffle faith

& therapy       

           it can asphyxiate

don’t worry                

           the drowning dogs

your pretty head         

           painted for the gods

it’s simple                   

           to rage & riot & rot

to manage                   

           the vacant parking lot

with the appropriate    

           knives   do what some

medicines                   

           can not

puisi bahasa inggris - Politics

Politics of Elegy

sam sax

like anyone i can make a list of the dead

i can make them my dead by making the list

i can write my name then name names below it 

i can craft & obfuscate & collapse

i can publish it

i can ask ‘who of us is left to tell their story?’

this land of plentitude & pens     

this land is my land, the song says, this land is mine

how long have humans buried each other in the earth

how long have we sung names into their absence

how long have we been paid for that singing

every architect expects people to inhabit their buildings

every poet pretends their poems to outlive them

every piece of furniture in my room is shaking its head

what’s the difference between weeping alone & on camera

what’s the gulf between an epitaph & an epic 

what’s a eulogy but a coin rising in the throat

eulogy from the greek means praise

praise from the latin means price

every public dirge is burning capital

every shirtless picture of him i keep is a small virgil 

every hell i’ve traveled through is an expensive bird in my mouth

i was paid a thousand dollars for writing a poem about a dead man who hated me

i was paid & each dollar is a ghost haunting my wallet

i was paid & i am trading his body for bags of food

i am never more dangerous than inside

the arms of a man

who will die

before me

Politics of Elegy

sam sax

like anyone i can make a list of the dead

i can make them my dead by making the list

i can write my name then name names below it 

i can craft & obfuscate & collapse

i can publish it

i can ask ‘who of us is left to tell their story?’

this land of plentitude & pens     

this land is my land, the song says, this land is mine

how long have humans buried each other in the earth

how long have we sung names into their absence

how long have we been paid for that singing

every architect expects people to inhabit their buildings

every poet pretends their poems to outlive them

every piece of furniture in my room is shaking its head

what’s the difference between weeping alone & on camera

what’s the gulf between an epitaph & an epic 

what’s a eulogy but a coin rising in the throat

eulogy from the greek means praise

praise from the latin means price

every public dirge is burning capital

every shirtless picture of him i keep is a small virgil 

every hell i’ve traveled through is an expensive bird in my mouth

i was paid a thousand dollars for writing a poem about a dead man who hated me

i was paid & each dollar is a ghost haunting my wallet

i was paid & i am trading his body for bags of food

i am never more dangerous than inside

the arms of a man

who will die

before me

puisi inggris - Trans

Trans Orbital Lobotomy

sam sax

in through the eye

device adapted from an ice pick

the space between the cornea & tear duct tears

little incisions along the frontal lobe

you open the grapefruit 

you open the grape

you open 

in the ‘50s there were tens of thousands performed in the states 

sour mess. sour mash. mashup. macerate.

cut a rug. jitterbug. wonder drug. gutter. tug. suture. lacerate. 

erasure. erase. raced. deadened. dead end. 

end. replace. 

once a doctor removed the frontal lobe of an aggressive ape

what followed was a column of ants

your relative made new & easy to manage

a miracle

Trans Orbital Lobotomy

sam sax

in through the eye

 

device adapted from an ice pick

 

the space between the cornea & tear duct tears

 

little incisions along the frontal lobe

 

you open the grapefruit 

 

you open the grape

 

you open 

 

in the ‘50s there were tens of thousands performed in the states 

 

sour mess. sour mash. mashup. macerate.

 

cut a rug. jitterbug. wonder drug. gutter. tug. suture. lacerate. 

 

erasure. erase. raced. deadened. dead end. 

 

end. replace. 

 

once a doctor removed the frontal lobe of an aggressive ape

 

what followed was a column of ants

 

your relative made new & easy to manage

 

a miracle