Magnificent. A salve, a balm, the "fast temporary relief" of a band-aide, the band-aide's anti-adhesive paper fortunes; this one band-aide's complex within its individual wrapper; the tin it came in;, the cellophane around the tin; the box all the tins came in; the boxes of boxes defined in gross; the intermodal inter-sea cargo units, containing all the band-aide containers, the ships that contain them; their decks, their compartments; the sugar and coffee tubes in the galley, the mugs, the sinks, the plumbing, the pipes full of water, and what else; and all the containing bulkheads and compartments beyond that, and within them. Far away, all those who assemble containment, All of it, all of us, all we cannot see: part of that dust. Thank you.
As someone who despises clutter, I love how this uses it as a jumping off point, and the zeros in on the guy and the gate. The idea that not everything needs to be explained.
T.S. Elliot would be proud. Fun and insightful, great job!
Kennard’s poem feels like a mirror held up to our discarded world, where rubbish becomes memory and myth.
The broken sunglasses and toppled statue speak of innocence lost and monuments stripped of meaning.
A cat leaping across a ruined fountain is a fragile gesture of life amid decay.
The mural painted over a mural shows how shame layers itself, history refusing to be erased.
The crisp packet worship satirises fanaticism, emptiness masquerading as sacred devotion.
God’s promise refracted through denial becomes light distorted, truth bent by human blindness.
The man stuck in the ornamental gate embodies absurdity, yet leaves a scar that cannot be undone.
Even folly becomes inscription, a mark that lingers like rubbish that will not disappear.
The moon reflected in a phone reveals space junk, our detritus scattered across the cosmos.
Ultimately, the poem insists that rubbish is not trivial: it is the residue of our choices, our persistence.
Magnificent. A salve, a balm, the "fast temporary relief" of a band-aide, the band-aide's anti-adhesive paper fortunes; this one band-aide's complex within its individual wrapper; the tin it came in;, the cellophane around the tin; the box all the tins came in; the boxes of boxes defined in gross; the intermodal inter-sea cargo units, containing all the band-aide containers, the ships that contain them; their decks, their compartments; the sugar and coffee tubes in the galley, the mugs, the sinks, the plumbing, the pipes full of water, and what else; and all the containing bulkheads and compartments beyond that, and within them. Far away, all those who assemble containment, All of it, all of us, all we cannot see: part of that dust. Thank you.
As someone who despises clutter, I love how this uses it as a jumping off point, and the zeros in on the guy and the gate. The idea that not everything needs to be explained.