Self Choruses

.
I.

I want to write a poem, so
I choose an ironic form, as
I talk about writing a poem, it
Happens - my mind the paper reifies;
The paper cradles my print, positing me
To be - became - pale fire again.

II.

St. Vladimir, you bless me with self-
Consciousness; a microscope I need
Today in a neighborhood of Artists.
I peer indiscrimately at pin points,
Like ants dotting a sinewy foot path.
Missing the point, I pray for further ants.

III.

St. Camus - not Albert, too Bourgeois for you -
You bless me with vitals, breath, red dirt and
Bouncing pupils of concern. In the neighborhood of
Dualism, you pointed out the grass and white
Glare of the sun on the garage door. The
Sun goes West, it belongs there for a night.

IV.

St. Iph, living in my house squatting at my desk,
Your sainthood I despise and think it a trick.
Your main trick is memory, an occasional scrouge
On the heart. I associate your conjuring glare
With flickering pictures and my tongue caught;
Mid the racket and traffic of thought, you pinch.


(Hey my lovelies, I composed this during Linguistic class last week. What do you all think? Here are cheats: St. Vladimir = Nabokov, St. Iph = "If.")