Tag Archives: Childhood

grown up

grown up

 

At the branch, all

ways draw outward

at a twisted angle

 

it is not easy

 

 

*

 

Someone will come

up the road in a truck

to disrupt the black–

 

is it enough?

 

one star is more

than you will see

 

*

 

Oh, the tall ancient building

precisely the same

 

from outside—

the scale within,

a wait

 

 

 

wait long enough,

dreams will breach the wall

 

 

*

 

 

the argument is inside—

the question is why.

Plastic stretched across

a wooden frame.

 

A child version

of an offering—

weeds grow up

through a fever

 

patterns unfold

square by square,

knit loop

the finger fits through

 

 

at this late date,

dawn is too late—

 

 

 

 

there was a time

for this

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not even a town

not even a town

 

mud-black knees,

tunnel through hours—

 

but they were silent.

 

in-fluent veins of grass

 

conversation in threads,

the hours

 

at the ends or beginnings

of threads

 

an entire sky

 

web of threads

 

to get a sweater from the house

 

thereafter, the test

of an equine confidante

 

black plum relevant to time

and space

 

water in the foot print

 

water in the gopher hole

 

rain-wet birth of the spring creatures

balled, or translucent, wedged

in the soil

 

the red flag is up

on the mailbox

 

tires

hiss on the road

 

an unseen person

humming into a task

 

a generational field

yields a warning sign

 

an analogue feline

fades into memory

 

 

 

breach the pattern

breach the pattern

 

internal effect

waits,

on gravel

 

wild chamomile is a weed

in the road, don’t

eat it,

it is tainted.

 

in each direction, the distance

misleads—The road

never narrows to a point.

Convergence

continues,

out of reach.

 

faces in vehicles–

barely a face–

zoom past, a moment

of round recognition

 

the high

speed mirror

carries part of my face

out of reach.

 

in defiance,

I carry in my palm

the answer to an unasked

question

 

 

 

echoic

echoic

 

incubate words in a bird’s

heart, where O

a discourse marker,

O of recognition,

round and flexible,

to shape a nest,

to live

 

black-red blood of the plum,

ephemeral, contained

by thin skin

 

an eternal child

self

 

makes gesturing hands

human–

motor skills

to carry and crack

an egg

 

plum, your limb

is my limb, contin

ues more limbs, two

of us drawn upward

as go and wend merge to

went

 

undulates vocables of Ur names,

now live on the slate, a trader’s

slang

 

sealed into clay,

opened only

after

the voice

 

Much like this poem

Much like this poem

 

a child speaks in projective whisper

learned lessons from the clouds—

 

whereas, in high desert, projection laws

do not apply

 

blades of grass imply distinct edges;

to sever an edge is true

when held in memory

 

childhoods rove in waves—broken

toys and plastic chairs surface in the sand;

storybook territories continue to expand

underground

 

unfinished lines hang there, threads

a line of thought paper thin, as a vacant

lot of known flowers in context

of what we don’t know

 

some lines calcify, locked in strata

where we put them and fill in sand

and sleep

 

when they find us

here, they’ll replace themselves

into the hollows left by these bones

ph(r)ase

ph(r)ase

 

synchronous

operation

opens hues only known

in passing—

 

the mind precedes

and follows by long

pauses

 

reach in, the image

swirls in displacement—

as known principle

that forms the earth,

her fragment moons

so ejected

 

leave aperture open and you’ll see

what they mean this is only

one phase of the question

 

sound- and scent-

triggers: bullfrog brooding

in the ditch, creaks the branch

against the trunk in the wind

 

our continuous kin, opens all windows

and screens thus replaced—

 

winds through gallery of all remnants

now displaced

 

weaves meaning, a unit

untethered from perception—

often the scale is wrong the words

wrong, but kinesthetic impulse,

auto correct

 

I’m telling you, I didn’t hear

what you heard. Song bird’s opteryx

lineage. Aquifers’

abduction. A honey bee

dies inside a flower. All

is meanwhile—

 

I fear I have no reason

to return, to intercept

of perception

and words

 

 

Loop topology

Loop topology

 

Born in a small town, walking paths

on imagined maps. Grown where margins

meet green fields, within seed coats

and insect rinds.

 

A screen, to protect

nocturnal animals from our thoughts.

Which must not be documented, only

half-breathed into sheets.

 

To sink into plum bark,

moth wing, a loop to lean into. An imprint

echoes through top soil, between layers

of sun and water, where our voices

leave deposits too faint

to dig up.

 

In that way,

the fields incubate an opening, a closing,

a flowering underground.

 

Very faint vibrations, very

faint, and at home, the blades

of grass have started to count again,

counting faintly but just enough to extend

space beneath story lines.

 

The way space

evolves between roots

growing toward hardpan,

 

the way limits

create novelty

in iterations.

 

Reverie

Sometimes we feel obligated to “schedule” our day (even weekend days). Try to find time to be alone today, to observe the wonders of the world around you in solitude, for the benefit of your soul. . . and enjoy a short passage about the subject of daydreaming, from The Poetics of Reverie by French philosopher, Gaston Bachelard:

What a lot of proper nouns come to wound, rag, and break the anonymous child of solitude! And in memory itself, too many faces come back to prevent us from finding the memories of times when we were alone, very much alone in the profound boredom of being alone, free to think of the world, free to see the sun setting, the smoke rising from a roof, all those great phenomena which one sees badly when he is not looking at them alone.

Smoke rising from a roof! . . . a hyphen uniting the village with the sky . . . In memories it is always blue, slow light. Why?

When we are children, people show us so many things that we lose the profound sense of seeing. Seeing and showing are phenomenologically in violent antithesis. And just how could adults show us the world they have lost!

They know; they think they know; they say they know . . . They demonstrate to the child that the earth is round, that it revolves around the sun. And the poor dreaming child has to listen to all that! What a release for your reverie when you leave the classroom to go back up the side hill, your side hill!

What a cosmic being the dreaming child is!

*

To my lovely readers: have a wonderful, daydreaming Sunday!

 

Excerpt from The Poetics of Reverie: Childhood, Language, and the Cosmos; Gaston Bachelard, trans. Daniel Russell. Translation by Grossman Publishers, 1969. Originally published in 1960 as La Poetique de la Reverie.

 

openings

openings

 

remember, you were born

an unspecified point

 

wire line across the palm,

you wondered what would happen—

wrap around the wire

 

remember—the puncture

points do not end, project

through to depth poles

through to recurring birth

 

air mixes with blood in the palm,

between divine aberrations

 

where noses in the grass where

there is only grass

 

black, twitching points dance

across field surface

 

merge, become one

for a moment then

expand, break apart

 

fly far away

to come back

 

viscous lines outline

familiar shapes within reach

to space beyond

limits

 

at each opening,

a line is a tether,

or conveys air for travel

 

is how deep you breathe

through the aperture

Conflagration of postal codes

Conflagration of postal codes

 

A conflagration of postal codes

mingle, covert adaptations, till we no longer

recognize the grid we claim as original—

these postal codes reinvent themselves

with new inhabitants,

to the letter writer’s consternation,

bodily facts reduced to a historic map.

 

But to augur the grid

according to flight of birds—

what largess!— to choose the right

position, innately oriented east,

in new familiar patterns, paths first laid

for nascent kings, and built in mirrored layers,

postions kept useful, sacred;

vaulted feet above the carillon, above

cobble, above the headland

where codes were born, now free to walk the maplines

of familiar kingdoms.

 

Otherwise, the people’s address was such

there was no street, only locus

and a horizon view alive,

dripped with ceremonial voices.

It was undersides of trees convinced them

the sky is holy—thus, the top room

to forecast eclipse, encase

an interior god who reclines within the old

structure, smiling a waiting smile, he knows

from correspondence with silence

the true orientation.

 

But nothing solves the immediate

mess of lusty postal codes, that correspond

as a way to mess with the surface, a meaningless grid—

talk muddles; have the roots

changed their minds? The childhood

code once memorized, now reinvents itself?

 

Is the original code (as we claimed it)

preserved down there,

in the dark, in the root,

or did the new people remove it?

as if removing the root renegs

on past prayers made to tree-lined

sky and stars, on a previous code!