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

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

poppies iii, being lost in the poppy's petals is another way of being found


  1. do you think - on some level - the poppy finds itself as well in our gaze, or are all things supremely grounded in nature such that they need no reflection?

    1. as much as our consciousness allows us to see, it creates our blinders as well. we can only find and name within the limited framework of our own gaze and articulation. we can't begin to imagine what the poppy knows or does not know.

      i'm not sure if this poem speaks to your question, but certainly her body of work does, but upon opening pattiann rogers's book Song of the World Becoming i am reminded of your question. perhaps the poem brushes up against the robes of the answer.

      "A Very Common Field"

      What is it about this grassy field
      that’s so familiar to me? Something
      with the beings, the form of the place?
      It’s not within the foxtail, not within
      the brome, not within oat grass or red clover
      or yellow vetch or the lot of them as one
      motion in the wind. It’s not the morning
      or even of the morning, or of the invisible
      crickets, one near, one away, still sounding
      in the damp after dawn.

      What is it so resonant and recognized here?
      A sense like nostalgia, like manner,
      like a state felt but not remembered?
      It isn’t the center of the purple cornflower
      or its rayed and fluted edges, not the slow
      rise of the land or the few scattered trees
      left in the fallow orchard, not the stone path,
      not the grains and bristles of stems and seeds,
      each oblivious in its own business,
      but something impossible without these.

      It’s more than the increasing depth
      of the day and the blue of its height,
      more than the half-body of the lizard
      turned upside down on the path, torn
      and transfigured during the night, more
      than the bells beginning their lesson
      in the background.

      It’s not a voice, not a message,
      but something like a lingering,
      a reluctance to abandon, a biding
      so constantly present that I can never
      isolate it from the disorderly crows
      passing over or from the sun moving
      as wind down through the brief fires
      of moisture on the blades of timothy
      and sage, never separate it from the scent
      of fields drying and warm, never
      isolate it from my own awareness.
      It is something that makes possible,
      that occasions without causing, something
      I can never extricate to name, never
      name to know, never know to imitate.


  2. Replies
    1. minimalist, dirk, BUT yet containing so much, perhaps even more than any colour photograph might. this paradox staggers me.


  3. I so get this. Yes to being found. I try to photograph my roses, passionflowers, dinner-plate hibiscus...wildflowers, but the camera can't capture their 'otherness' no more than my words can. These petals seems to want to sing with joy. :-) xo

    "The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks." ~Tennessee Williams

    1. williams's quote is such a profound recognition of the fragility and yet power of life! thank you for that, marion:)

      and doesn't our otherness reside alongside the otherness of everything else? aren't we made of the same mystical life force?



"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))