“My Foucault-friend, who is now an anthropologist, observes that in the West we tend to think of made things as being false” (Biss).
If the poem I make is a false thing, as made as my house,
As false as your eyelashes that you also made this morning,
As thing-like as your car that falsely carried you
To work yesterday and just as falsely, eventually,
Carried you home last night, then how am I to cultivate
Truth like a garden of earthy, homegrown delights?
If my poem, made from words, which presumably also
Have been made, in this case by our ancestors
Who agreed what the grunt would mean, and the hiss
And the slow accumulation of consonants, then how
Can beauty be real, since there too we simply have to
Agree on the symmetry and style of another face?
If the song you made from notes just lying around
The universe is false, if the story you told yourself
Of love and loss and, eventually, redemption and love
Again, if that too is made and therefore false, what hope
Do any of us have to find the real thing, the true and
The beautiful thing, the unmade heart beating to ours?
Biss, Eula. “‘The Folded Clock,’ by Heidi Julavits.” Review. New York Times. 27 Mar. 2015. Web. 10 Feb. 2016.
grumpy cat! XDDD