not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

autobiographical landscape

Morning again.  Wind.  Shadows
of clouds trench and fill the fallow ground.

A difficult light staggers across the stubble.

Crows drag their saws toward the trees.
Everybody knows they exaggerate their torments.

If you begin with, "I remember..."
you must translate "the foot's worn threshold,
an hour is the doorway..."

Reader whom I will never see again,
the sun throws its hooks into the frost,

and wind is dialogue - the light comes and goes,

comes and goes.

poem by: james owens


  1. I have said it before but I really think you need to see about having your work published.

  2. ha! birdie, perfect)) i kiss you))) this one is not mine. it is james' poem and it is published in one of his beautiful books of poetry, an hour is the doorway. he will balk. no, he will quietly back away and be quiet but i believe he is an important poet, not because i love him (but how i do) but because of what and how he speaks/writes, but even more importantly, because of what and how he sees. thank you for seeing this too)))


  3. william, at this i am speechless and fracture. i understand half this statement)))



"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))