Saturday, July 18, 2015

Poem of the Day: “That Stomping Sensibility” by David Pring-Mill

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “That Stomping Sensibility” by David Pring-Mill.  Mr. Pring-Mill is a writer and award-winning filmmaker. His poems have been published in: Poetry Quarterly, Boston Literary Magazine, Page & Spine, Eunoia Review, Crack the Spine, and East Coast Literary Review. He is also author of the poetry book Age of the Appliance. Follow him online: @davesaidso,

That Stomping Sensibility
David Pring-Mill

We are modern warriors
And so we march.
with that stomping sensibility,
never knowing,
never truly knowing
what we’re trampling…
And always,
always getting closer
To some desirable thing,
which quickly becomes
some other thing.

We don’t know
what birds and bugs
but beneath us, they must be,
of this
we are assured.

That V-shaped flock says something.

We only hear
repetitious noise;
we interpret it
as blaring horns
when there is no traffic in the sky—
only cooperative form!

And the buzzing of those bees:
or something else entirely?
Surely, they are full,
In their shape, in their being,
In their ways:
Fully tuned into themselves,
into the clear signal of existence.

What else is muted?
Of the incomprehensible,
What else makes sense?

No. Onwards!
We march onwards,
stomping and crushing
along the way.

A path is not taken.
A path is made.

Even music must know
its instruments
as players
in some holy war.

Melody shapes its own victories
from the sonic battlefield.
And awareness is the creed
of the unspoken.

Of the incomprehensible,
What else makes sense?

This is a lonely universe,
Some say.
On a planet teeming with life,
They say it.

With the skein still above,
Every emotion ripples through us,
Through the stillness
of an ever-expanding body
and wilted mind.
I feel my heart crashing
And my bones breaking.

I try to remember:

All pain is transformative,
And I can’t rightly complain
until I am appointed god of shapes.

Never mind all that.
We march onwards…

In the hearts and minds
Of youth, one hundred things
demand celebration and pity.

And even I
Remember being young,
Remember blades of grass
that split in two
along the crease,
Remember little floating toys…

Someone once told me:
“I don’t like to take baths
because I don’t want to sit there 
in my own filth.”

But if your filth is in the bathwater 
that means that filth came off of you, 
which means that there’s filth on you right now, 
which means that you already are 
sitting in your own filth.

You don’t object to baths.
You object to self-awareness.

…And with raspy voices,
we scream: Onwards!

Poet's Notes:  Every day, we're surrounded by stimuli, and we interpret them subjectively. "That Stomping Sensibility" raises discursive questions about this process. If it turns out that meaning underlies everything, how would that alter our perception? How would that impact human experience? Is there a hidden structure to chaos?

Editor’s Note:  I enjoy the jaunty rhythm and directionless direction of this poem.  The range from serious, philosophical introspection to whimsical, satirical exuberance keeps my attention.  It is a thought-provoking piece, mindful of mindlessness.

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