reflection: spare crop / fleet mind
The deconstructionist repair man
invites you to enjoy
the brokeness of your item;
he restores your faith in it
‘as is’.
He tells you:
“It’s true beauty is exposed,
now that it’s falling apart.”
Perhaps he will find that it’s not broken enough.
He will fix it:
set each component aside, gently
to aid your contemplation
of it’s inner truth.
He asks, “What is the ultimate reality of this object?”
now that he’s stripped it
of morality’s mask:
utility.
we all bumble through
our stumbling ‘now’
our answers to the same question(s).
“Well now – not for the first time!”*
the think of marvelous awe
and best proof that i’ve ever found
that there is some shimmering “YES!”
in those vibrating strings:
of Lyre
of Voice
of the collapse and expand of cosmos’ breath:
organizing it into the chaos of a collapsing star,
is that we ask.
we ask
and the answer is in that question
those questions we’re all asking in unison
unified (perhaps not) only in this theoretical field
full of stars
collapsing
and bursting into being.
*(see Anne Carson’s second note on translating Sappho in “if not winter”)
PAROLES VIDES (pour Jaques Prévert)
Savoir faire, sauveur, sauge…
sauvage:
Creuse RUE DE SEINE
Le sein s’élargit sous les pierres
avec un souffle scintillant
á dix heurs e demie:
“dis-moi la vérité…”
Pierre.
Savoir faire dire
la vérité est vide:
Remplirons
avec nos paroles
aussi vides
aussi belles e sauvages.
Sauge / Saveur.
Savoir / Sauveur.
Sa voix faire…
EMPTY WORDS (for Jaques Prévert)
Know how, saviour, sage…
savage:
Excavate RUE DE SEINE
The breast expands under stones
with a glinting sigh
at ten thirty:
“tell me the truth…”
Stone.
Know how to say
the truth is empty:
Let’s fill it
with our words
also empty
also full of savage beauty.
Sage / Savor.
Knowing / Saviour.
Her voice knows…
Spring has arrived in Lombardia. This is the cherry tree in blossom that I see on the walk back from taking Robin to school in the morning. The cornice of the house that you can see on the right is the house where we live and I can also see this tree from my kitchen window. Lovliest of trees…
LOVELIEST of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
A. E. Housman (1859–1936)
Very seldom do I post something so well known, but I saw a cherry in resplendent bloom this morning and this poem by Housman (one of the few I’ve ever memorized) sang so loud I thought I’d see if you heard it…
The Spring won’t come. A dun bird shifts
his leaden wing and preens the quick
unplanished sky. The rain holds back
above the glacier’s mirrored lac.
Sheet pinned to sheet clouds sullen drift,
Mountain’s iron foot shores the split,
Dis’ black horses elude the bit.
In white re-dressed the peak sounds back:
The Spring won’t come!
Persephone irons out her shift,
Twists off her leaden ring and quick
folds up famine’s sheet; sighs, turns back
to Somnus’ smile ingrained with lack
of sleep pinned to sleep, beauty drifts,
the Spring won’t come.
by Bonnie Mcclellan copyright 2011
listen to this poem here:
“We’re all trying: poets to give you, the reader, the gift of an image that cannot be offered in any better way, that cracks you a bit and frees something; you, readers, are giving us the gift of your searching, your curiosity, your attention…”
Now what?
International Poetry Month 2011 is closed. The marauding hordes have left the library ablaze, the flood has washed away the ashes, the caravan carrying the last copy of the precious poetry collection has vanished in the desert; at least that’s what it feels like to me as I hit the delete key and erase the written versions of the poems.
What remains is the oral tradition; I have made audio files of each poem available where the poem used to be posted. Anyone who is on my e-mail list has a ‘fragment’ of each work. Perhaps, like the poems of Sappho, this is all that will remain.
I would like to extend my profound thanks to the following guest poets for their contributions:
Michelle Lee Houghton
Liliane Richman
Jere Schaefer
Octavio Solis
Some of these poets have blogs or websites where intriguing writing and images may be encountered. I encourage anyone suffering from poetry withdrawal to visit these sites by clicking on any of the names that appear in bold. Others are tantalizingly unavailable, if you want to see more of their work you’ll have to hope that they come back next year. Of course my work that is or has been posted throughout the rest of the year is still here.
Thanks as well to everyone who has stopped by to read and comment on the poems either here or at podbean*. It has been a real joy to present so much fine poetry again this year. Now I have to start thinking about next year and get back to writing.
A presto!
*podbean ate my audio! All mp3’s can now be found posted with the poem.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 