Saturday, June 26, 2010

Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?

Just So; In Light

"The one who came from farthest to my lodge, through deepest snows and most dismal tempests, was a poet. A farmer, a hunter, a soldier, a reporter, even a philosopher, may be daunted; but nothing can deter a poet, for he is actuated by pure love"--Thoreau.

It's about a shift
in point of view
he says, a slight raising
of the veil, an angle turned,
just so, in light,
as to reflect what lies behind,
beneath, inside.

Inflections of the souls of things
--the soul of things--
he corrects, as if he and I and
the walls are all composed
of the same thing--
Holy--something inside, beneath,
behind--
He's right, this poet with me softly.

Plow it all under, release the shine.
--no, what's apparent's just fine,
every mundane bit divine,
you and me, yours and mine.

Saturday, June 05, 2010

Hip_-Hop

Disjointed-Jointed

The view through this first-morning
window is something right out of Flaubert--intersecting arcs
and rectangles presently reflect the morning light as it scrambles
across the city's rivers and bridges. The light converges; remote
eaves hold the remnants of night, its cool shadows. Glass, brick,
metal, wood and sky--essaying deliberate flats-and-narrows against
columnar towers, window upon window upon window--black fractals,
smooth onyx set in elemental relief, time-buffeted and rubbed, sands
of industry and invention--durable utility, yet light shows forth from
every intersecting line, eternity runs along all-diverse trajectories,
trajectories that circle back, fall one into the other, endless
repetition, immutable processes of variation--

This synchronicity, my friend, welcomes me in my New York City
hospital bed, the morning after surgery, convalescing as I think on
Flaubert, knitting back together while ruminating on Mallarmé,
and looking out the window.