MONDAY POEM

Sometimes one poem leads to another.  I'd read Lew Welch's Ring of Bone several times.  The clarity and simplicity of it was startling.  Once, repeating the last four lines a few times, the truth of the cliche you can't un-ring a bell hit me between the eyes, probably right in the spot a Hindu would place a tilak, the spot marking the seat of memory and thinking.  It was a momentary coming-to. The ringing of a bonehead. . . ...and then I heard "ring of bone" where ring is what a bell does Lew Welsh, Ring of Bone, Collected Poems 1950-1971

Down to the Bone
Jim Culleny

If I could un-ring certain bells and un-wind time I
would, but can’t, so instead, I'll just ride this bucket
of bones till the wheels fly off; till ball-joints grind
and drop from sockets; till this xylophone of ribs riffs
the music of the spheres; until my funny bone
tells its last joke; till my shoulder blades cleave the
universe in two and find the nut within; until I'm
hipper than both hips and happier; till I'm savvy at
last, slicker than elbow grease, and mute as a smart
metatarsal; until I'm wiser than a thought-stuffed
skull; until I knee-cap my inner sonofabitch to stop
his useless jawin' so I can hear one clear day
resound off tiny anvils and ride the lyrical looped
song of a backyard bird round Lew Welch's ring of
bone. Instead…

I'll just splint what needs splinting right here at home.

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