 |
| Rachel Blau DuPlessis [pic by Tom Orange] |
Draft
4: In
Walks thru the daily
to write the dead
of living
in
every day, chopping
every day, a changing, enlarge and
isolate, o.
Herein
to dangle small specks over the
cribside
surds harmonics dang odd
ratios fishing an
anarchist page.
Oaten paper like bread,
ink of the living waves,
light billows in the grain,
Scritto, scribe.
crotty
invents
fine fast lines and thick in-
ky turnings
fingerthin mountains
scroll
down to the narrow plain,
a pretty pass.
Creamy cup of tea
cool moon night
neighbor window light.
Unrolls accelerating
streaming
into the kine and pith
of basis.
How white “all color” the color
of luminous death
whose light
San Francisco Provence Paestum
is the color of my vivisection
in the world. The world!
the wheaty, milky world.
Whose years?
and what beg-
innings
articulate a blank blanked space, a
dotted dotty line?
Just here . . . a draft, a stroke, a
kind of fear.
The composted grids, earth lines
where
this hand shakes.
Late summer carnation pods dessicate
in
spiky columns, blue grey green, each
line is an
inter; there is no action, it is an
inter,
(although it was genius to isolate
one action
and make it larger)
there is no story or poem
in.
Every day a little sweeping back, a
little digging
out
in
a change
enlarging or diminishing can change.
Depends.
Inside the paper of the page
the iris watermark I suck.
A pen, a hand, an inching haibun,
riddle and edges:
tinted flings of ink wherein
inflection singing
bends time’s minute sounds.
In the backward and forward are
lower and higher
drawn out, drawn on, drawn in
a fine tip pen a brush flick of
shimmer
amid which nuzzle worms and shaking
dew.
Open eye buttabee.
Why the air so blue my honeyo?
Why incredulous by any change?
bud bud bud but bud bud
have turned (should some poem
hesitate?)
lactate cherry words
milky spring
IN
to hunger of incipience, perpetual.
So one is finally of it and the
“parts” and configuration are
no longer accessible. Stars
imperturbability
or matter’s inside
Are dark. The mark is dark, the page
dark
is
the first imagination of this drawing, this drafting,
these
draughts. Skims of
language
scatter
platters of plenty.
Patterns
that
hunger. A barque of
silage through the sky is
as layers of
translucence,
transparencies
on
which words could be feeding
the
cow
inside
the ruminant middle.
read
through the other, not so much over but the
simultaneous
conflictual overloaded presences for which even
“palimpsest”
is too structured a docket. Three dimensional
page,
a page place or plage, a play space, a play splice
the
flimsy drops of scrim through which they filter, shapes
and
lights
I make the gesture
comes
through me
A
perfectly calm practice it
is this
yet
there is the tension of making a strange train. The run thru the
bi-lingual.
Now a very long tunnel totally unexpected. Very dark,
and
very long Entering under the whole structure of
transcendence
Long drawn black
gold
bold
in relation to nature. fodder
strokes
And
now there is no “in” in anything? any
deeper
or more intimate forage,
language
any knowledge of the in
is some effect I
can
no longer resist. Have
no idea what
stop I am.
grassy
drawing on white is
for
me to show, to show me it, in. “The
green horizon, early
winter
dusk” is certainly pretty. I am not getting the force of it,
the
rebuff,
this
constant imperviousness laced with my pleasure.
Implacable
the
world. The sorde serif I call myself. Because I am inside,
am
a mite in the letter
a
traveller thru are,
the senses of
dark holes tunneling grainy paper.
Gathering
all because of being in it,
yet
I
am getting the force of it, in.
August
— December 1987; November 1988; May 1991
No comments:
Post a Comment