|Rachel Blau DuPlessis [pic by Tom Orange]|
Draft 4: In
Walks thru the daily
to write the dead
every day, chopping
every day, a changing, enlarge and isolate, o.
to dangle small specks over the cribside
surds harmonics dang odd
ratios fishing an
Oaten paper like bread,
ink of the living waves,
light billows in the grain,
Scritto, scribe. crotty
fine fast lines and thick in-
down to the narrow plain,
a pretty pass.
Creamy cup of tea
cool moon night
neighbor window light.
into the kine and pith
How white “all color” the color
of luminous death
San Francisco Provence Paestum
is the color of my vivisection
in the world. The world!
the wheaty, milky world.
and what beg-
articulate a blank blanked space, a dotted dotty line?
Just here . . . a draft, a stroke, a kind of fear.
The composted grids, earth lines
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
and make it larger)
there is no story or poem
Every day a little sweeping back, a little digging
enlarging or diminishing can change.
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
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
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
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
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
on which words could be feeding
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
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
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,
this constant imperviousness laced with my pleasure.
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,
I am getting the force of it, in.
August — December 1987; November 1988; May 1991