Consider poem 19 from the section, “A Textbook of Poetry” in Spicer’s 1961 book The Heads of the Town Up to the Aether;
“Esstoneish me,” the words say that hide behind my alarm clock or my dresser drawer or my pillow. “Etonnez moi,” even the Word says.
It is up to us to astonish them and Him. To draw forth answers deep from the caverns of objects or from the Word Himself. Whatever that is.
Whatever That is is not a play on words but a play between words, meaning come down to hang on a little cross for a while. In play.
And the stony words that are left down with us greet him mutely almost rudely casting their own shadows. For example, the shadow the cross cast.
No, now he is the Lowghost when He is pinned down to words.
Jack Spicer
Posted in The Octopus Magazine
1 comment:
They were all nuts in 1961.
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