Land
& Tittle Christopher McCarthy
When I read a
poem – or hear it being read –
I imagine
it was written as close to me as
she is &
listen to each word land
your words
land pretty, close, & so much so
I imagine the
poem is a postcard to me
solid, speaking well, from some sunny place: silent
when so many small words lie so close together
tiny
spaces in between are even, more, important
the little
square for the stamp: silent’s reserved parking space
your
correspondence poems - our sending
columns of words
which gain meaning & expression from the
quiet pauses, waiting
late & human
so many of your poems
land pretty close
I can hear how
tittle is title no longer:
superscript spot – small distinguishing mark,
dot on lowercase i
or j –integral, part glyph
you remind me
of Fr. Patrick, the priest,
who wrote
‘Ponc’, which is the point, dot,
& tittle, it begins:
ponc mé – I point, I dot, I tittle
but I leave in a gap
after me
we correspond
like that small distinguishing,
marking the
dot over top of the i,
the space after it, not one t–too much:
cut i’s head off,
go to l
kick away j’s
soccer ball
tittle sounds too
much like diddle, & ‘Ponc’
sounds more
like punk
or worse,
spunk
but there are
too many poets, writing poems
to spoiled,
aging priests, defrocked & hopeless
no, not that:
cut
i’s head off,
three i’s grow up in its place
kick away j’s
soccer ball
pass it back
start a game
Christopher McCarthy | Toronto | 2015-2016
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