AFTER TRYING SO HARD
By: Tim Seibles
to say something, something irresistible about the issues at hand, the poem picks up a guitar and plays: the way someone trying a new language speaks to a native, hoping not to embarrass himself, but of course, a few telltale plornks flounce from the frets— and to be honest, the poem doesn’t really get music: all that shimmer with no semantics—harmonies for harmony’s sake: major and minor keys, slur, strum, trill— but it does hear some syntax in melody, and a chord could pass for a word, so the poem tries a solo: each note scuttling the larger body of sound with what felt like a sort of optimistic fury, a menacing affection, a brazen humility—but I know what I mean, the poem mutters, swelling like a soufflé, and this shit sounds pretty good to me.