By: James Penha I have invited a third person narrator to sort out my thoughts, clarify motifs, highlight symbols and, especially, to discern theme. He has serial rights to all materials, but understands that the vast majority of what he finds has relevance only to me. If he thinks stream of consciousness resonates with a contemporary audience he will find rivers of it, but I don't think anyone but me will care to navigate the tributaries, the veins. Oh, he will find a goodly share of titillation and enough expressionistic tale-wagging to suit a Kafkan but I fear with Prufrock how I will wriggle on a pin in front of-- no, only if I am readable will I be read. This is the optimism of poetry. At Cafe Batavia, Old Jakarta, Indonesia By: James Penha Poets deserve to nestle in the wings of leather armchairs before imperial glories and heavenly flights of grand stairways reflecting crystal and gold because we cannot see stairs untrod, mirrors faceless, flowers uninspired, napkins free of lipstick, creams, and sauces, air clear of clove-scented fumes, or glasses half empty. In the loneliness of lost hours, we write what the ghosts remember. |