Travel Poem by Ron Padgett
Travel
The little clock dings the night on the roof.
It hurries towerd the mystery of luck.
I don't know where these things are hidden
what is not behind is silence on the face
of a plaque dividing the barrel from the wall.
They intend to porpose a lower voice to sing a voice higher.
That at night one's life full of bits of wood
is silent is passing between the veins
much paints falls on the world indoors.
You are finished hearing throught a filter
where noise lends a sort of joy to your own clock
I am a bit sleepy-headed... I hope that is why I cannot make heads nor tails of this work. It's like I'm an inch short- I think I'm onto it and I reach out and it slips away as if I never had a glimpse of its truth. I shall have to try again when my two brain cells are awake... But I don't feel too bad, I see that I have company with Tom below!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 10:04:14 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Unless I am simply unfamiliar with the word 'throught', there may be a typo in this poem.