The mystery writer and the poet in Joyce tells us what’s the brief of either in this interesting verse.
The detective runs down digs up
uncovers exposes and brings to light
what we refuse to touch but can safely be seen
from the other side of the TV screen
munching genetically modified food
to put us in the mood.
The detective seizes embraces squeezes
the shadow side
her pain is un-a-nesta-sized
staggering under the weight
of what we’re not prepared to know
preferring spectator sports
and bottles of pills that kill
the impulse to go
the poet stares with bright hot eyes
investigates and penetrates the ring of lies
floating like a halo over the prize
that no one can win
the poet steadies the arrhythmic heartbeat
turning and tapping in time to the sweet street
scaring away with words that flare
tearing up the day
laying down the dare
the poet waits, hibernates and then relates
images from dream to dream
connecting the dots in an unconscious stream
trusting in the end they’ll reveal what they mean
the detective collides
the poet rides.
Pic from Net.