SELF(THE POET PASSÉ)PORTRAIT
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/77/1/SELFTHE-POET-PASSEPORTRAIT/Page1.html
Bill Knott
Bill Knott is the author of some of the America's finest, most original poetry. It is impossible to discuss post-modern American poetry without focusing on the singular vision of Bill Knott. A true maverick, a master revered by the finest poets of our time, Knott has been virtually ignored by both the American poetry establishment and the "avante garde." Among his many volumes of poetry are: The Quicken Tree, Outremer (Iowa Poetry Prize), Poems 1963-1988, Selected and Collected Poems, Rome in Rome, Love Poems to Myself, Nights of Naomi, Autonecrophilia, Aurealism, and The Naomi Poems. The selection below is from Knott's manuscript, Plaza de Loco.By Bill Knott
Published on 04/5/2000
His task to watch an hourglass wash itself,
A ritual cleansing that leaves him bare,
Though no purification's new enough
To nullify the need for such labor--
Prior soon to repeat, platonic clone,
He should have practiced that horizon
Vocation, camouflage, opening his
Arms wide the better to hide. But of course
If the flesh is fire, bones are the kindling:
Still there but aching to be unbelied
By the lover, unbellied as breaths held
Until all the minutes fall to the wrong
End of the hour and find his final
Efforts,ve faded, dated as (or like) a sundial.
Copyright © Bill Knott, 2000. All Rights Reserved.
His task to watch an hourglass wash itself,
A ritual cleansing that leaves him bare,
Though no purification's new enough
To nullify the need for such labor--
A ritual cleansing that leaves him bare,
Though no purification's new enough
To nullify the need for such labor--
His task to watch an hourglass wash itself,
A ritual cleansing that leaves him bare,
Though no purification's new enough
To nullify the need for such labor--
Prior soon to repeat, platonic clone,
He should have practiced that horizon
Vocation, camouflage, opening his
Arms wide the better to hide. But of course
If the flesh is fire, bones are the kindling:
Still there but aching to be unbelied
By the lover, unbellied as breaths held
Until all the minutes fall to the wrong
End of the hour and find his final
Efforts,ve faded, dated as (or like) a sundial.
Copyright © Bill Knott, 2000. All Rights Reserved.