Octopus 9

The latest issue of Octopus is up and contains an appreciation of Joe Ceravolo's Transmigration Solo. To commemorate the occasion, here's a poem from that collection. I like the simple, child-like diction. The progression of the observations from external to internal, and their confluence together with the somewhat Ashberian shifting of pronouns: the poem has its "we" section, its "I" section, and its "you" section. And Joe's trademark innocence-filled questions create their typical pleasant surprise (here not quite achieving the kōan-like quality they sometimes do in his poems).

SPELL OF ETERNITY
Joe Ceravolo

We are going to the park.
There are swings there.
There are rocks along a sand bed.
The flowers rest along
the bed. The flowers
rise among the fatigued
insects invading them.
There is a smell.
It invades us
through the insects
and makes us
notice there are flowers along
the bed, tiny flower clusters.
I envy the smell along the beds.
Is this a decaying soul? But
it is not said.
Am I decaying like
autumn insects, autumn leaves?
Find my heart!
Revive it! The old clouds
you find along the sky
have no chance next to you,
because it is autumn,
autumn.