December 4

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I have a shadow inside
like bottled-up smoke

and this– husks of grapes,
eleven summers, oaked–

can conjure it up–
a caution. By the lake

today the crows were
swarming, the last

of the maple leaves afloat
on the lawn, like scarlet junks,

and at China Harbor,
an empty banquet room

backlit by bay windows,
with a hundred empty chairs–

negative capability,
like Keats said, to receive

the world, concavity,
the capacity for being

contained in the empty room,
the glass-green eye

of a cat sunning itself
on the stucco overhang,

or the low winter sun stuck
in puddles of pooled mercury–

and to see and to think only
of the hand that scripted,

the mouth that dictated
the cursive name

of the last boat
on the dock, wondering

at how resignation shadows hope,
or prefaces it, depending on

the way the light falls, the way
we imbue a word, concentrating it–

Ab Initio,
and for as long as you can, after

 

 

13 Comments

  1. Pingback: “the way the light falls” | Emergency Kittens

  2. Xan Search's avatar

    This brought to mind a Paul Klee quote: ‘The eye follows the paths that have been laid down for it in the work.’ I feel like I’ve been on a journey reading it.

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  3. onecarriage's avatar

    This is a fantastic poem—rhythm, imagery, nods to Keats and Mircea Eliade. I love it! What’s best is that it just flows as one utterance, one complete moment.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. rahelteresa's avatar
    rahelteresa says

    absolutely beautiful ❤ when do you usually write your poetry? I usually write in a dark room with an acoustic instrumental in the background with hot chocolate. my favourite line is "husks of grapes….eleven summers.."

    Like

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