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On the list of things we apparently
take for granted: the sun’s rising, eggs stocked in shelves, dew-point. Regular as a gold watch. I cynicised myself, since being forced to recognise the ‘transcendental’ felt like a bit of homework. At 5am, strolling out, I kicked intervals into the lawn’s arabesque of droplets. That silent music, finely metered, dispensed something in my chest so now I traced the glowering sunrise and noticed a ladybird as it walked off its blade. The tefillat tal rang out of me when life teemed in the corner of my eyes - and yet, entering the house, Love was still a mug of coffee on the table set for me. And that’s when I knew: Life had been arid until I met you. a cento for dew
Smacks like fresh water in a can, like the sea When light and sunbeams, warm and kind, were destroyed. As the wind veered upon the drifting Days, weeks, months, years this dew, these bright dead eyes watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem has come to us: Magic rain magic mist magic dew magic hail something about it has changed The new morning light is a primitive dew: for a moment light in a shadow in the shape of a house destroys the picture. Wallace Stevens, John Clare, Basil Bunting, Mabel Simpson, Christina Rossetti, Mark Strand, Christian Wiman, Thomas McCarthy, Laura Kasischke, Beatrice Ravenel, William Pitt Root, Christian Wiman, Peter Gizzi. clear and crystalline
prismatic world of hidden sighs you are grace blessing the soles of my aching feet. |
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