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

Sunday, December 21, 2014

white and white, but


white by Amy Clampitt

over the great inland
riverbeds   the greater
lakebeds   a runneled
skitter   by dusk a blur

swarms   interspersing glooms
of conifers the far
side of the pass with
mazily hexagonal

lopsided falling things
or substances   or stuffs
bear paw   ear flap   rabbit
scut    the mirror-haunch of

pronghorn   whiteness of whale
of glacial octopus
such thunderous accu-
mulations' drip and roar

snowmelt   sunbreaks   advances
and retreats   the polar
threatener   tossing to
cherry trees by parking

lots unseasonable
nosegays   leaving on wind-
shields these wet billets-doux
the snow is general

***

white, but

not general
but specific
named   particular
otter's brow   scat   leaf print
truck runnel tracks through snow
body's penumbra   and direction
crow that slices sky in two
defining silence   slicing contour
where   before   then   and after
where the world was   or might become
where you are   and are not
who you are   and most definitely   not you
the white world   breath of evanescence
sea forming   convoluted mirth in foam
greyscale   comma   strike
infinitude   murmur   scope

13 comments:

  1. somehow the poem white, but - drew my eye back to the photo in the previous post. the bird against the patterned rooftop. defining silence, slicing contour...where you are and are not. the juxtaposition of stillness and movement, the seeming difference between the concepts of man made and Spirit powered. the last two stanzas are spectacular - greyscale comma strike infinitude murmur scope

    the serious lines we draw between the hardness of form and the soft, beating, flesh of heart and spirit.

    maybe the lack of focus in your photograph best describes how we humans have so much trouble seeing

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. or maybe we see best when the so-called clarity of reality isn't obscured with sure-sightedness. i don't know. but we certainly feel a great deal, don't we, intuit?

      i like how you see the connectedness, amanda, with the previous photos. i think you are probably right as it is all connected through white space and form, that which i have a serious love affair with.

      xo
      erin

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  2. I love him
    I would not mind being there but certainly would die of cold.
    a hug

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. damaso, you make me laugh. you most certainly would not die of cold. we would teach you the ways:) but i do believe you would love it here. i don't understand how anyone might not love this reality, this reckoning.

      xo
      erin

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  3. Replies
    1. you're too kind to me, dirk.

      xo
      erin

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  4. Du blanc, mais ... de l’écrit, de la trace, du signe. Du blanc, oui, mais de la vie devinée, de la vie présente, de la vie aperçue. Du blanc, mais de la passion pour la perte de soi, pour le chemin qui n'a pas de fin, pour la mort qui rode et t'embrasse au passage. Du blanc, mais aussi le cri d'un corbeau qui déchire l'espace de son aile battante. Du blanc lorsqu'il n'y a plus de nuit, pour que chaque nuit blanche soit une nuit passion pour la femme perdue. Superbe poème s'approchant du seuil de l'année.
    Belles fêtes de Noël et de fin d'année, chère Erin.
    Je vous embrasse.

    Roger

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. and to you, roger, and gratitude for your careful understanding of what this thing is that we are a part of.

      xo
      erin

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  5. White...today means another warm, foggy day with rain. So sad... xo

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. unfortunately we are slated for rain tomorrow too, marion. sad for us, as well.

      but today i ran out in the snow with the hail just beginning. how loud it was off the dried oak leaves and the conifers! somehow it managed to erase and fill the world. i felt very well inside of it. i can't imagine not knowing it. i wish you could know it too. (i do imagine that the fog sometimes affords the luxury of erasure or a somehow perfected perspective.)

      xo
      erin

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  6. Replies
    1. jonathan, you're kind.

      and now i brace and beg for more. more poetry. and more snow!

      xo
      erin

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"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))