Three poems – Laura Carter

Laura Carter

After Analog

Nothing begs saying: so much that the beginning is
often not entirely what it seems.
And to say it’s infinitive
begs every remaining question
but the truth is that what’s made
is neither pure nor impure. Neither permanence
nor deceit can take the thing from
the loveliness of its lost edge.
It’s not an infinitive, no,
not to say of the mirror
or the remembrance I have of those
by whom I learnt to love. And did I, then?
Work edges in, its vagaries.
Every abstraction wants to know metaphor.
Nothing to say but that there is movement,
and then none, like waiting again.
What is a thing? Is it performance?

After Half

Before you think that there’s a clue,
you think that there are a series
of them, as if trying to make life
out of an endless questioning.
This is something every young person knows,
or at least, this is what I know,
me having known all the questions before
I had come to know pop songs.
Outside there’s rain, ordinary
as knowing oneself.
And so to remember the signs
is not like being so unafraid
that you can’t speak of what is there.
The weatherman turns in,
and I’m still alive with this,
neither a tree nor a man,
not without a set of reasons
but knowing that
the arc of earth will return
to shape me again.
If time is what things take, from
one beginning beauty falls beside
herself, so weary with age.
I’m against neither sun nor setting,
the operative words being known.
A year is a place for growth,
or so some say, as if wanting to know
the difference between
new sets of standards.
How do you divide time?
How can I divide the earth when
I am built of its dust?
A year is a place. Time
manages. To
eviscerate the with would be fearful.
There is always something of us all
within the crevices of action.
I call this empathy.
It’s neither class nor structural.
A beginning reaches from your outside.

What is a return

I cannot believe I will return to you,
knowing that the way I live now is so
unvenerated, fully sewn.

There are moments of belief within

the pale rose that lives in me:
the oftenness of meadow
draws a blank, on the other hand, at times.

Having crossed (across) this river.
Having rocked out of crux,
cradle, old melodies.
Having moved past early analogue.
Having desired
to become. And there are

times when I think difference
is the optimum,
though all geese have fallen now
and there is no more poetry.

Outside the analogy,
likeness is dissipated.
(I was born in October, blue.)

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