Tuesday, February 2, 2016

"Here on the rim, cringing under the cracked whip of winter"

There is no center;
the centers
travel with us unseen
like our shadows
on a day when there is no sun.

We must move back:
there are too many foregrounds.



...

An other sense tugs at us:
we have lost something,
some key to these things
which must be writings
and are locked against us
or perhaps (like a potential
mine, unknown vein
of metal in the rock)
something not lost or hidden
but just not found yet

that informs, holds together
this confusion, this largeness
and dissolving:

not above or behind
or within it, but one
with it: an

identity:
something too huge and simple
for us to see.

from "A Place: Fragments" by Margaret Atwood

Sunday, January 31, 2016

Friday, January 22, 2016

figure without landscape

Figure without landscape,
white with the many names of snow,
she makes her house
of skin and snow.
Alone
for the others are dead,
she is a small Arctic sun
curving space around her.
This world swirls,
changes with every wind.
She must shape the world
by being alive.



At times the wind is elsewhere,
no snow falls,
the sky's lights crackle and hiss.
Lost as the sun
among all stars,
she hears the whole night
name her,
Small Small
Here-by-chance
Belonging-nowhere-meaning-nothing.
She says stubbornly nothing
but poems come from her hands:
she finds food.

from "Woman On/Against Snow" by Pat Lowther

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

"a cold place inside us the body can't convert"



Arctic Carving by Pat Lowther

They say it's country of dream:
so few go there

a cold place inside us
the body can't convert

There light falls in separate flakes
into the world mesh
Creation of all things
spreads outward

And there a man who had
never seen trees
was visited by trees of ivory
shaping themselves against his knife

No leaves suggested themselves
only rudiments of branching

only the blunt pure shapes
essence of trees
where like the mind at point zero
a white bird rested

Saturday, January 16, 2016

"Soon I will take a sharp stick and begin"

















"The ice forest grows
like a speeded film of stalagmites forming
While I watch, antlered trees
fur a whole ridge"

from "In The Continent Behind My Eyes" by Pat Lowther