Tumblng PhiloPoet - Honda Pavarotti by Tony Hoagland I’m driving... Install Theme

Your web-browser is very outdated, and as such, this website may not display properly. Please consider upgrading to a modern, faster and more secure browser. Click here to do so.

Tumblng PhiloPoet

ALL LINKS ON THIS PAGE, INCLUDING MENU ITEMS, OPEN RIGHT BELOW THE FOLLOWING TWO PARAGRAPHS:

Artists and creative folks of all sorts, from anywhere and everywhere, in the world, should find this a congenial place visit, amidst the many daily Writers Almanac posts. Many of my own poems, ekphrastic poems, based on artwork found on Tumblr, are also here.

If you have your own poems or creative work, which you would like to submit for posting, on the general theme of East-West spirituality, l invite you click the menu item on The Golden Lantern sites, which I edit.
Feb 22 '13

Honda Pavarotti

by Tony Hoagland

I’m driving on the dark highway
when the opera singer on the radio
opens his great mouth
and the whole car plunges down the canyon of his throat.

So the night becomes an aria of stars and exit signs
as I steer through the galleries
of one dilated Italian syllable
after another. I love the passages in which

the rich flood of the baritone
strains out against the walls of the esophagus,
and I love the pauses
in which I hear the tenor’s flesh labor to inhale

enough oxygen to take the next plummet
up into the chasm of the violins.
In part of the song, it sounds as if the singer
is being squeezed by an enormous pair of tongs

while his head and legs keep kicking.
In part of the song, it sounds as if he is
standing in the middle of a coliseum,
swinging a 300-pound lion by the tail,

the empire of gravity
conquered by the empire of aerodynamics,
the citadel of pride in flames
and the citizens of weakness
celebrating their defeat in chorus,

joy and suffering made one at last,
joined in everything a marriage is alleged to be,
though I know the woman he is singing for
is dead in a foreign language on the stage beside him,
though I know his chain mail is made of silver-painted plastic
and his mismanagement of money is legendary,
as I know I have squandered
most of my own life

in a haze of trivial distractions,
and that I will continue to waste it.
But wherever I was going, I don’t care anymore,
because no place I could arrive at

is good enough for this, this thing made out of experience
but to which experience will never measure up.
And that dark and soaring fact
is enough to make me renounce the whole world

or fall in love with it forever.

"Honda Pavarotti" by Tony Hoagland, from Donkey Gospel. © Graywolf Press, 1998. Reprinted with permission.

3 notes Tags: poetry spilled ink poem by tony hoagland poem on opera Pavorotti music in the car WritersAlmanac NPR

  1. chocolateinthelibrary reblogged this from tumblngphilopoet
  2. tumblngphilopoet posted this