That Place There: by Bonnie McClellan-Broussard
Tag: my work
Trigger Warning: grief
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Promemoria
- “All art is concerned with coming into being.” Aristotle
- Vivaldi Concerto in D Major for 2 violins and 2 cellos (RV 564) Especially II. Largo.
- “Just as the nature of briars / is to tear flesh, / I have proceeded through them. / Keep the briars out / they say. / You cannot live / and keep free of / briars.” William Carlos Williams.
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In Vocation of the Muse II: by Bonnie McClellan
In my map of things you are confounded with
grey-green clouds
pressing against
bright ground,
like Shiva’s foot.
Creating – uncreating
spring.
Though properly your colours belong
to summer of golden
gulf-beach sand and
blazing,
hephaestian-hematite sweat
against the cuffs and
collar of
field, cotton white and
August sky or shallow
water running over
stones.
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Implied subject || sottofondo: by Bonnie McClellan
It is the thing that lies under
under lies
below the foundation
like a time signature
signalling in silence:
there
there
there
there
we are.
È la cosa che sta sotto
sotto stante.
sotto il fondo.…….
come il tempo quaternario
segnalando in silenzio
ci……..
ci……..
ci……..
ci……..
siamo.
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Memory of Water
Every stone bears the memory of water
within its mineral bones
time stamped with the fluid trace
of a flickering-blind magnetic north.
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Sunrise, 30 December 2020 – by Bonnie McClellan
Sunrise, 30 December 2020 Now is the hour of the small birds storming into the cypress tops, which do not bend as they do under the weight of magpies and ravens. A murmuration of morning steam rises off the cement factory. Disguised as fast-moving clouds, they power up the valley; an insubstantial mother tugging at the hand of her sleepy puff of a child, running off into nothing. Now the sun snaps across the mountains an incandescent ribbon of rose-lipped pink. Clouds, scattered across the measureless pale-blue tile of sky, explode into tulip petals, pink swans, holy doves alight.
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Shadow Play: Fennel and Bees
For Matthew, on the occasion of his 57th birthday: 18 June 2020
Old Women and Old Men at the Ferry Stop
(The old women)
We remember the harem of the walled citrus grove;
Old women, how like apple trees we gather now:
Pink, heavy with stories of
some familiar odd thing —
mimosa trees, a seagull’s wing.
The wind rattles branch and bone
creases in our skin drawn dry
the feathered marks begin
(The old men)
A grove of old men gathers at the dock
live oak, pin oak;
Backs curved, stilted up
Worn down with the effort of standing
Dry twig of a laugh cracks wry.
The empty and chaotic air,
that passing through the trumpet sounds:
Ferry outbound, ferry in
Grebes baste across the swanless surface
disappearing threads.
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21 March 2020, Lombardia, Italia – by Bonnie McClellan
21 March 2020, Lombardia, Italia
everything stilled
the world has stopped
a spring
crowned with silence.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 