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On Reading Pessoa by Laura Davenport

depoetry
November 3, 2015

 

Some fictitious village burns

on the page, defeated Persians

in a huddle and Pessoa describes

their dying: the wall scaled,

ever off-screen women pinned

against it. It’s hopeless, but then

the second author intervenes--

the girl who possessed this book

so many forgotten semesters ago.

In bubbly, rounded pen she gives

us back the meaning of events:

trees ripe with structured emptiness,

their leaves afire in the summer air,

release acrid aesthetic purity

which cloaks the ancient men

who sit and smoke, indifferent

to the screams of women dragged

from the wombs of their houses.

into the world, into the burning air

of modernity. The readers--she and I--

sit through the lecture as the old men,

waiting out the siege, playing

endless chess. And where the poem ends,

bold loops around the margins

as the invaders, finished with the women,

whack the old men:

I am so happy I am so

happy I am a kappa

kappa kappa kappa gamma.