"crepusule with nellie (take six) The Poetry Society / by Ken Taylor

crepuscule with nellie (take six) 

Commissioned by Filmpoem and the Felix Poetry Festival in association with the Poetry Society. Poem by Ken Taylor. Filmpoem by Ginnetta Correlli.

crespuscule with nellie (take six)

we make choices. sometimes it’s watching phoebes erase moths from clover months after the family jaunt across texas: weather parroting miles & miles of trouble. dirt roads going nowhere or to a lozenge pattern: evidence of local color hiding something all over the place in the same kind of building. other times, we find ourselves on a plane over a large body of water & the headphone jack defective. yet, if we complain, compensated only with a wink & reminder our seat cushions float. was it late afternoon saturday? you were wearing the t-shirt we both like: i can’t, i’m waiting for godot & the kid on the bus asked, what’s go dot? we can choose to loiter in the past: munich, on some straße, trying to decode menus to avoid eating der blaue reiter for the 4th time this week. breathing a shade of cinnamon we weren’t sure existed. & birds again, only this time crows, rowing in an iron sky & mispronouncing klee! klee! klee! ten-thousand foot view is the distance we want to be seen by: not a river wandering to find more river. scar tissue passes for meaning. gristle: gist. police talk to their shoulders instead of using them to brachiate. we all chose to throw rocks over arboreal locomotion. a trifle that springs to mind is catching fish with balls of white bread. we wonder if there’s pond life with this shape that hasn’t been discovered & can be named for a relative who botched their days. eventually we succumb to tabula rasa & sell the suburban. love is noticing the eyes of another being picked up in a tie. everyone improves in the proximity of our affection.

From the judges...

'The abundance of ideas and images in this charged montage of a poem made it stand out from the crowd. From the police who ‘talk to their shoulders instead / of using them to brachiate’ to the phoebes who ‘erase moths / from clover’, the poem sifts out luminous gems from the detritus of existence to offer an elliptical commentary on the choices we make for love.' Jane Yeh