Bells, a poem written by Carson Pytell at
Frederik Falinski



written by: Carson Pytell


Wrestling crotchety cathexes,
the objects of which are himself,
constancy and ripe ultimacy,
the carillonneur walks to work.

Solitary in morning’s hush,
just his chipping steps and breath
beat their best against it,
nightingales’ screech.

Reveille, he’s concluded, for it is
now stark and morbidly monotonous,
will be culled today for a new song,
one to be rung loudly as possible.

Bless the carillon, the tool,
pray for the old ringer, the man
who climbs slowly now up the belfry,
hell-bent on beating the birds.

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