POETRY
Poetry is the source of all literature.
In the evolution of communication arts, the verse emerged from the sea of song. Words turned and turned, gathered force in a charm, a prayer, an entreaty to the powers of life and death, to the beat of the heart, the rhythm of the cry. A gourd and skin formed the drum. A poor reed pricked with holes served as flute. One day the drum disappeared, stolen by the trickster forest god, the reed snapped and was tossed in the dry thicket. The shaman knew he must sing alone. His words hummed in his desert throat. The poem went out on its own, carried by his voice. A poem is now a quiet thing of the indoors; it whispers to the eyes and asks to be left alone.
Biographical note:
I've been writing poems since childhood. I won my first contest in high school and my poems were first published in a daily circulation newspaper one week before I went to college. Poetry is great to do and hard to evaluate.
Since the rise of the novel, poetry has found a commercial use and public prominence in greeting cards and popular songs, but there abides a plea

Pachyderms Who Woke
could not dissemble
the roar of timber fallen...
The end's preamble came
swiftly and went,
the behemoths bellowed
but could not repent...
The White Male
I, the nomad, stripped
Whipped & twisted by the sins
of the father, by the winds
of women, by the dark men,
I’m no holy ghost,
but a bull’s eye,
the face revolution
hates; yet a piece
of me remains, and
my bleeding, they
think it’s right, and I should
Vote for & condone it,
that my extinction will
end their strife.
I just wanted to say—“
“We’re not listening, go away!”
“—Just to tell you…”
“—We don’t care! To hell with—“
“You don’t understand—“
“—And we don’t want to…”
“May I interrupt?”
“Shut up! Shut up!
Would you please
SHUT UP?”
...Love life!
(Give me a nickle)
Think upon time
(Lend me a dime)
Muse upon eternity!
(Give it to me free!)
All ends seek between,
The bridge empowers the banks,
Yet where the bridge ends
another begins,
spanning an abyss—
the absence of an end,
destination, rest—
This bridge is partial,
its extension endless
Both sides are alike,
only between is unique.
The bridge has two mouths
bewailing separation.
Each bank denies pride of place
and sets its gaze on the opposing space.
When markets come calling,
The bridgeheads
Are sold as ideal locations
to watch the other side.

THE BRIDGE
Between these lines
I can be as crazy
As I like,
In the box
I’m uncontained
Uncontrollable,
Insane;
Body berserk
The devil’s work,
No swarm on earth,
No beast on land
Or fish at sea
Or vampire in the sky
Can hold back my callused
Killing hand,
Or fool my slow mo’ eye,
Or stop my feet
From burning holes
In the concrete.
Rampaging, dominating Perpetual motion
Like a shark,
I swim, bleed, and drink the ocean
Dry—a killing, drilling machine,
Speed is my
Devotion;
Knowing where the ball will be
And beating it there
Making it change shape
And disappear
Is my cunning art;
I a blur
So fast
Can’t tell
What I’ll do next
Or where I’ll be,
For anybody watching
Good luck
And hold your bets,
I play on
Till the game disappearing
And all you see
Is white shirt,
And shadows
Dancing, all that’s left
This game is at a higher level,
Chaos at its best.



Poems and Plastiglas by Eric Jay Sonnenschein
Photographs by Ralph Gabriner
