Monday, December 31, 2012

this new year, i suppose

i take up this year that begins now and now and now and always now.  to hell with this particular calendar day or tomorrow's.  now.  now, i say.  now.


i take up this year and throw down the year and in its place i take up this day.

and so what?

i take up this day.  now, i say.  now and now and now.

and so?

i take up this day.


i stand in a cold dark room and i take off all my clothing as though each piece is an idea. -  here.  i leave.  i go to do this. - i return.  it was very cold.  it was even painful.  i stood naked in a cold dark room, only my body, my very real body.  such cold and such pain.  i dress now shaking, eager for some warmth, grateful for the desire, for the means of requirement.  thank you, this body.  i stood in a cold dark room and knew of others naked and alone; knew of others dying; knew of others dead and gone.  i felt my swollen and aging belly.  i felt my contracted and cold breasts.  i felt the descent from my ass to the muscles of my thighs.  how strong am i or will i be?  what am i?  will i live through or beyond this year?  i stood in a cold dark room and cars went away from me through the distant bedroom window.  cars came toward me through the distant bedroom window.  i did not matter to them.  nothing was changed for my standing naked in a cold dark room. 

nothing was changed but me.

i take up this day.

and now -

should i be honest?  still so little happens.  but i am intent on seeing through the veil into the horrible mouth of what is real. 

will it smell of honey? 

sometimes, when it is in season.     

but otherwise.        

the floor was so cold it was painful.       

we must wait long intervals between warm seasons.

in the meantime there is no meantime.  this is the point.  i take up this day.

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

on translation

before i forget:

the same conversations arise over and over again the last few years. language has been key for me, language and poetry.  last night in bed it rushed at me, a truth like a wind over a field of wheat: everything is translation, not just the word, but language itself and more than language - everything.  we think of translation as being between two languages or in terms of poetry as translating an experience in a particular way that does not anchor it to the word but by some form of alchemy the words recreate an experience which reveals yet another truth, a truer truth behind them, but in truth everything is translation, even the experience itself.  this came to me.  i hold it loosely in my mind today somewhat understanding what was revelation last night.  if everything is translation then there is a necessary distance between us, we small humans, and that other thing, that which we must be held away from and spoken to (more distance) with experience and language and through time (another crucial distance) otherwise we would see we are directly inside the crucible of god, a flare of magnesium, a tongue of instant fire, born and consumed, our individual identities imperceptible flickers.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

i am not convinced by this body.

i have an image of a hammer laying into a seed.  the shell of the seed is knit, formed from a fine fabric and small, albeit substantial to the touch, but inside of the seed is nothing, or everything, space, void, depending on how you look at it.

we view this world inverted.  we think of the men with their hammers laying down the railroad track.  we think of this as work but we are wrong.  the real work is ripping up the track, throwing the hammers with all might at the sky.

the line, it  bends back upon itself, recurs to me.  this bending back is the shell, the fine fabric.  what is inside the seed is what is inside of me, nothing, or everything, space, void, depending on how you look at it.

i wake up with the yearning to rejoin the sky.

my body, barely here, only that thing arched back upon itself, trembles, asking for the hammer.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

december 6, 2012

i started out on my run today comfortably in a t-shirt and thin long sleeves.  the snow had gone and the north wind had laid down.  as though the world might take its cue from my experience i expected no ice on the river.

there was ice on the river.

i ran a few miles and then home, my skin licked and then bitten by a newly raised north wind.  this is irrelevant.  regardless of what i experience there is ice on the river.

Monday, December 3, 2012

while i am reading song of myself aloud you are peeling a clementine for me to eat and laying one crescent after another on the chair's arm beside me and  i do not stop reading and talking and you do not stop peeling and placing and this could go on for an eternity and be enough.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

who could ask any more from the tree?

it goes into the world

it endures