A brief treatise on synaesthesia
by JeFF Stumpo
[ poetry - january 09 ]
For Mark Yakich
Actually, it's nothing to do with synaesthesia,
but I don't know the name for my condition.
That's the real problem, isn't it? I mean I
sometimes mistake a leaf for a running dog
or taste blood when someone scrapes
a pot with a metal spoon. But this
is more serious. I can't tell my tragedy
from my comedy. It all began with Hamlet,
which, as we all know, is hilarious. No.
It began with Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood,
which, as we all know, is mournful.
Your latest book, The Importance of Peeling
Potatoes in Ukraine (which the unfamiliar
will think I have invented, but it is quite
beautiful)(that didn't actually confirm
its reality, did it?), is blurbed as a work that can
"re-envision solemnity in terms other than
lamentation, protest, and memorial." I want
that ability. No. I want to know when
I'm using that ability. People sometimes laugh
at my guy-with-AIDS poem. I made a woman
cry with the one about the girl who turns
into a fish. There are apparently several voices
that come naturally to me, but I can't tell them
apart. They don't come as voices, you see,
but as vibrations in my jaw, near to the ear,
as though I'd been struck. Whether my wife shakes
from laughter or anger, orgasm or sadness,
I'm never certain. What chance do I have with words?
I wrote these ones because I am unable
to be there in person to hit you. Would you
give yourself a papercut for me? This page will do
just fine. Depending on your thoughts in response,
I have a selection of sharp and blunt objects
at my dispoal. As always, I wish you all
the best, JeFF
