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Wednesday, July 28, 2010

After Beckett, Words Fail

Better or worse?
Worse.
Maybe if you massage it a bit...
Worse.
You’re beyond help’s reach.
I could squeeze it till numb, and it’d still be worse.
When did it start?
When will it stop?
You’ve got no answers?
I’ve only got questions.
Questions start the ball rolling...
I’d like it to stop.
First, try to start.
I’ll start tomorrow.
Would that be better?
No, worse.


I didn't do a very good job of writing to this week's Poetry on Wednesday prompt. Rallentanda posted two music clips: Martha Argerich performing Bach on piano, and Anoushka Shankar playing sitar while accompanied by a violinist. Such music tends to set my mind wandering (a dangerous thing), and the latter struck me as a kind of conversation. Having spent the past week immersed in Samuel Beckett plays (there's a wonderful 4-DVD set called, originally enough, "Beckett on Film," which includes his 19 plays), this dialog is what popped out. It's derivative and not very deep, but it succeeded in its mission to amuse myself. There's a musicality to Beckett's language, which I admire greatly.
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