after reading you so, i've decided some things. you have won my love with your lily mud, your muskrats and birdstart, your weight of lake water. the granite pail grace of words you tumble down the page like stone-skipping, outflow flood, or like pouring your eyes out into folded, and i am cranberry bush, cupped paper palms waiting.
your pressure-pump is water-bird and i drew a small heart near that. and your father's trees and your mother's ropes and the road are what you know. you talk about the plumbing. about the oven. fishpole & leafbloom. that beautiful poem last (about louis?) that dwindles in everything~ down and down until it's nothing or mine.
red mars / rising
i'm writing this in a letter because how can i not. it's the only rightly quiet thing to do, me & you.
what to do, watching the birds.
i was in the grass with the book and i kept writing things like alliteration. and slant-rhyme. and "sound"."sound"."sound". there was sun and a swirl of film-thin clouds and writing those sorts of things makes me tired. my toes sifting pine needles i wanted to write about "she who knew boats and ropes". i want to write "you have been on my mind / between my toes / agate" or "leafing towards you / in this dark / deciduous hall". i could write "Rock = Blood / Nature = Body / Body = Compost?" i could write, "
sound. pace." or "image & sound." but i want to
write everything else, your "sweet cedar pink", the "July, waxwings" and "the little / thin things /
paul". i want to write "spoon-tapped water glass", a "strawberry
letter" and "you weed / you pea-blossom weed / in a folk / field". i
want to write that your heart was flooded and you measured it out in
thimblefuls, careful, spelling out in pinches, dashes, delicate as to not spill
any excess on the page. that you were wedded to the worms and the water in the
maybe you held the papers there by their trees, in the light. maybe you were content or lonesome. maybe you saw yourself only as a reflection in a lake. silver minnows, sharp and swallows darting in your eyes.
the formation of a word from a sound associated with what is named
(e.g., cuckoo, sizzle).
• the use of such words for rhetorical effect
onomatopoetic, ey, i don't know how to say that. do you? the pronunciation doesn't translate fonts. it's written in the right font of Gertrude or Marisa, the wrong font of everyone knows this strange word and you can't remember it what's the matter with you, but i'm pasting it for us into my crumpled scrap paper-bit basket in the small font of pearl-flowered, your maples to swing from / pewee glissando / sublime / slime / song. you can hold me at the distance of an arm, or a pond, or a thick winter window patterned with frost, keep me there evenly, even with your I but the sound smoothes out the reaches, pull us together like a bent green branch. a pine bough. the handle for a basket. "Get a load / of April's / fabulous / / frog rattle / lowland freight cars / in the night".
wandering in your head, wondering your island, your blood-heart rustles like leaves.
"descending scale / tear-drop-tittle / did she giggle / as a girl?"
( took a lifetime
as a girl, i found a picture of you dressed up like Pocahontas. you had two thick blonde braids with ends jagged as horse-tails, shimmery twisted like the surface of a lake from underwater. you stood there, timeless on your island, laughing in black and white with the big grey sky behind you. caught in that catching a moment, like a fish. "if in danger, run," you say in silence of smiling, "to the woods."
Pound's definition of the image was "that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." Pound defined the tenets of Imagist poetry as:
I. Direct treatment of the "thing," whether subjective or objective.
II. To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation.
III. As regarding rhythm: to compose in sequence of the musical phrase, not
in sequence of the metronome.
pale and sharp, my pencil in the margin. your reflections reflected in musings down the page.
a glossy blade of grass, split.
my life by water
i've wasted my life in water, you said
i've spent my life on nothing
my life is hung up / in the flood
( "the solitary plover / a pencil / for a wing-bone" )
quiet in isolation. quiet because some seasons shift in silence. quiet like island are quiet. like the mud and collected fallen-things at the bottom of a lake are quiet. quiet like an old faded painting of yourself with bare trees and water behind you. quiet in lines dangled in space, like watching fish faint submarine back & forth between the murk and surface of the pond, "lilacs, vacant lots," your white the gulls / in grey weather, your pouring wine over cabbage. lakewater lap and leaf rustle. hold your pencil like a reed, a wand. wait for letters, weather, hush.
Sleep on horseback,
The far moon in a continuing dream,
Steam of roasting tea.
In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
"I learned / to sit at desk / and condense" you said. condensing moments to their essentials, push your pencil at the essence of a moment – like a secret – taking a moment and unlocking it like the flat door of a box – looking to see the particular shape of its heart. letting out a little, the breath of it. breathing. the breath of birds filling in the white space that surrounds you. an antique looking-glass on the dresser. a lunar moth hidden in plain sight on a doorframe.
autobiography of voice or stitched together like:
my mother, thorn apple bush
my father catalpa tree
I rose from marsh mud
I'm swamp / as against a large pine-spread
raped by the dry
a weedy speech / a marshy retainer
a wave-blurred portrait
sit for two months on six lines / of poetry
I was job-certified / to rake leaves
something in the water
like a flower
in blood the minerals
of the rock
Water lily mud