The language book

Yes, The Language Book remains a mystery, which needs some clearing up before my exam in mere weeks. I just finished reading a poem by a fellow mate who wrote in block form, a sestina that was about the war. I find it difficult to imagine that we are fighting a war (fill in mind boggling statistics) and at the same time, interested in new music, thinking about that gardening job we once had to pay the bills, what it would be like to be a grandma, you know. Yesterday after I left the Penn Library with the latest George Oppen book in my hand I remembered thinking last year that I lived with a young Oppen. Then I tried to think more about that thought. You know, as if I could somehow come to a conclusion about whether that was the case or not and why I didn’t still live with my very own young George Oppen. But, all I could think of was painting my room navy blue and writing on the walls in white pen. This thought wasn’t much of a clear road into the Oppen question. Nevertheless, it is like my friend Stefan Ödman says, “one doesn’t need to wonder in search of clarity for what has happened.”