not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Monday, October 17, 2016
Friday, October 14, 2016
Friday, October 7, 2016
Monday, October 3, 2016
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Monday, September 26, 2016
Life Draws a Tree by Roberto Juarroz (translated by W. S. Merwin)
Life draws a tree
and death draws another one.
Life draws a nest
and death copies it.
Life draws a bird
to live in the nest
and right away death
draws another bird.
A hand that draws nothing
wanders among the drawings
and at times moves one of them.
a bird of life
occupies death's nest
on the tree that life drew.
the hand that draws nothing
blots out one drawing of the series.
the tree of death
holds the nest of death,
but there's no bird in it.
And other times
the hand that draws nothing
into an extra image
in the shape of the bird,
in the shape of a tree,
in the shape of a nest.
And then, only then,
nothing's missing and nothing's left over.
occupy life's nest
in death's tree.
Or life's tree
holds two nests
with only one bird in them.
Or a single bird
lives in the one nest
on the tree of life
and the tree of death.
Monday, September 5, 2016
Summer Crosses The Water
First she is a far ways off
and it takes a good long while to focus,
to understand what's coming into view,
what's located like a dot between those two
anchored and distant islands.
Then she's in front of you, a boat,
filled with sundries and ice-cubed sodas
and women with thin straps coddling
off their shoulders, soft skinned, and thwack -
a stinging unrestful zestful desire, slipping,
slipping, slipping effortlessly through azure water.
Then she's advanced (holy hell, were you asleep?),
the hollowed hull of a cargo ship,
a sepulcher you can't hold or reach,
slipping, slipping, slipping again
around the harbour's bluff,
an empty drum, a lost host, a wraith.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
the tree grows from the shoreline
and the trunk is thrust out upon the water
is this a photograph of desire? if so, whose desire?
or is desire, the lustful knot, undone in this?
is this image two dimensional?
how many dimensions is desire composed of?
how many leagues deep?
the snare of bulbous roots
casts forth its image
which does not complete itself
images in water
my mother is sitting in her easy chair with her oxygen
making circles with her fingers along the rise of each of its arms
she used to do this at lunchtime while sitting at the table with her novels
using the long fingers on one hand to encircle her chin, as she devoured the exotic mysteries
then later, as her eyes worsened, while we talked
she'd hold one arm and encircle her other elbow
i think about being at the river and tossing in stones
the circles widening until they swallow my image as i hang over the bridge
i look a little like my mother
Monday, August 8, 2016
from Hachadura by Robert Bringhurst
There is nothing like the razor
edge of air, another
like the tongued pebbles, syllables
of sea-wind and sea-color and
a nothing and a nothing like the salt
hide drying inward, eating
in through the underbelly of bone,
of the sea-eaten iron, and the open
lattice of the wave.
There is nothing, moreover,
at which Eurytos never
quite arrives, tallying
the dust with the four-finger
unsheathed from the flesh of his hand.
Suppose, therefore, a certain
concretion of order,
unstable or at any rate in motion, but a certain
concretion of order inherent in one
in the innumerable
forms of such a number. Therefore:
darkness under the sunrise,
darkness in the hollow of the hand;
inside the spine the darkness, the darkness
simmering in the glands;
the rumpled blade of darkness which is
lodged in every fissure of the brain;
of the darkness which is always
between two surfaces when they close.
The bird is the color of gunmetal
in sunlight, but it is midnight;
the bird the color of gunmetal
in sunlight is flying
under the moon.
There is a point at which
meridians are knotted
into nothing and a region
into which meridians fray and intertwine,
but not like mooring lines; they
fray like the leading and trailing edges
of wings, running from nothingness
to muscle and strung from the muscle back again.
Listen: the sounds are the sounds of meridians
trilling, meridians drawn to produce
the illusion of plectrum, tuning pegs and a frame,
or perhaps to produce Elijah's
audition: the hide
of the silence curing,
tightening into the wind.
Or the sounds are the sounds of the air opening
up over the beak and closing over the vane,
opening over the unmoving cargo slung
between the spine and the talon,
slung between the wingbone and the brain.
It is for nothing, yes,
this manicuring, barbering, this
shaving of the blade.
Nothing: that is that the edge should come
to nothing as continuously
and cleanly and completely as it can.
And the instruction
is given, therefore,
to the archer, sharpening
the blood and straightening
the vein: the same instruction
that is given to the harper:
Strum the muscle.
And come to nothing.
Monday, August 1, 2016
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Monday, July 4, 2016
Niall FizDuff brought a jar
of crab apple jelly
made from crabs off the tree
that grew at Duff's Corner—
still grows at Duff's Corner—
a tree I never once saw
with crab apples on it.
sky-whisk and bristle, more
twig-fret than fruit-fort,
as crabbed could be—
that was the tree
O my Pablo of earthlife—
when I tasted the stuff
it was freshets and orbs.
My eyes were on stalks,
I was back in an old
rutted cart road, making
the rounds of the district, breasting
its foxgloves, smelling
cow-parsley and nettles, all
of high summer's smoulder
under our own tree ascendant
its crab-hoard and—yes,
in pure hindsight—corona
O my home truth Neruda,
round-faced as the crowd
at the crossroads, with your eyes
I see it, now taste-bud
and tear-duct melt down
and I spread the jelly on thick
as if there were no tomorrow.