[Stylist] Poem: "Blindness"

[Jackie]

Brax,
I do not remember you, but welcome back. There have not been many poets
contributing lately. 
I have read the other comments, and I think Kris has given you an analysis I
most agree with.
It is a poem with strong feeling that mirrors what so many of us have felt.
I write nothing without the spell checker, not because it is compatible with
poetry, but that it picks up repeated consonants, extra spaces, missing
spaces, and such. If you do not have an editor or extra pair of eyes, you
are forced to go letter by letter throughout, and very time consuming.
Line length is terribly important, and I did not go line by line, so I will
not comment on that.
Keep on.

Jacqueline Williams

Clarity is just questioning having eaten its fill.
     Jenny Xie

-----Original Message-----
From: Stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Abraxas
Ardent via Stylist
Sent: Tuesday, December 04, 2018 12:11 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Cc: Abraxas Ardent <lukaeon at gmail.com>
Subject: [Stylist] Poem: "Blindness"




HI Stylists,


I wrote this poem about a week ago, about my process of coming to terms with
blindness.  Like most, I'm sure, it's taken me years to get to a place of
contentment, even fulfillment, but I'm finally actually there.  
I've also written a poem about the beginning of the process, about the
shocking event of losing my eyesight; I"ll post that soon.



--Brax


(Poem follows below.)


---


Blindness
(for Luke Wyatt)

Abraxas Ardent  copyright 2018
United States of America
All Rights Reserved

It's a sizzling fat damnation at first.
  You stagger your childhood streets, you smash your nose on familiar walls,
you trip, you fall an murder God in your outraged savage heart. Strangers
get it wrong somehow, like your blind on purpose, you're being some kind of
mad unkind obtuse.
But after seven years, or ten or twelve, the fires subside, burn out, and
you find one day that you can ride Bach fugues like a sublime toboggan, that
familiar voices are hueful as Renoir gardens, and the sheets on your bed are
sweet as Rainier streams. You suffer still:
easy text is lost to you like an abducted mother and familiar streets can
teem with deathful  spites. Not born a superman, you grow a cape, you learn
arts of patience and abide. And clver tech, too, teaches joy: androids sing
my email, clarify my thought stream and my deeply eared poems,lensed through
my heart's purgation, ignite galaxies.












--
  
"A crack in the teacup opens a lane to the land of the dead." --Auden


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