lost 32 [b, d, g, p, t, k]
in fact, all words sound like what they mean and if she resembles a possum, that rememberable thing that w. wordsworth mentions in the preludes, and is sniffting around my real estate agent’s kitchen, she may be a possum. one leaf will move in. hasten then sir/madam to e-bay for the ten-tonne metal bridge thieves took yesterday, (will melt down), plastic bags fluttering as if filled with wind, impatient futurists, and/or billions of wicked thoughts. on water, in air, a different direction from another, pronounce the stopped consonant, block the flow of air through your mouth. is this my grandfather? i have made this passage longer; i don’t have time to make it shorter. thank you pascal, but if leaves fall from a tree, or an open metal flute is made to sound an octave above its length, think midpoint. they, understood, kneel backwards on the bus, inspect a larger p bound in sturdy maroon as was meant to be. again i recall your mind suspended in a scene from a christmas globe, the snow ever slow-falling inside p,t,k (its tiny world).
Photo credit mine, with Carol A. Stephen’s new camera!
a type of building material piece of furniture like a lamp table a point a locus a site tree sap to remove tree sap for making syrup type of telescope a little hill just part of what we do casual in spanish clay material a mid-sized grass-covered valley between two knolls to be cool as in she’s got cass a gear found in swedish clocks a grandfather you’ve never known an attempt to seduce the proper name for a female to fish sediment in beer root beer ginger beer a warm earthy woman of middle years and ample proportions to take a picture furnished with excellency wealth prestige a sepia photograph is this my grandfather?
Thanks to http://www.trismegistos.com/MagicalLetterPage/ Margo’s Magical letter Page, by Margot Magnus
Enough then of these confounding pieces, and on to a poem for the season that I’ve always liked: (I also like to rename this poem and read it as as It Is A Small Planet)
It Is a Small Plant
by William Carlos Williams
It is a small plant
delicately branched and
to a point, each branch
and the peak a wire for
green pods, blind lanterns
starting upward from
the stalk each way to
a pair of prickly edged blue
flowerets: it is her regard,
a little plant without leaves,
a finished thing guarding
its secret. Blue eyes—
but there are twenty looks
in one, alike as forty flowers
on twenty stems—Blue eyes
a little closed upon a wish
achieved and half lost again,
stemming back, garlanded
with green sacks of
satisfaction gone to seed,
back to a straight stem—if
one looks into you, trumpets—!
No. It is the pale hollow of
desire itself counting
over and over the moneys of
a stale achievement. Three
small lavender imploring tips
below and above them two
slender colored arrows
of disdain with anthers
between them and
at the edge of the goblet
a white lip, to drink from—!
And summer lifts her look
forty times over, forty times
White as x ray bone she rises through
The trees in stone as if she were sublime,
As if she knew what this grace was
And she was only nine, framed
Between her errands and her games.
Her nymph’s body surges underground
Not knowing what this buried love
Beneath her neighbors play Frisbee
On the grass and strangers take her
Photograph. The final sun pours
Into her sealed eyes and mouth as though
She were the saint of radiant stillness
Who says this marble flesh is a prison
Stone yet the mind flies with
The confetti of birds, soars into
The beliefs of summer.
Silence succumbs to air and the blossoms
Sail down, the clocktower’s fretted hands
Notched against her ribs.
Questions flood her blood
And darkness, flee and then she’s gone,
Taken from our vanquished arms but
She still speaks in the autumn leaves,
In the furrowed bark, in the singsong
Of the childrens’ swings.
Jonathan Wells’s collection, Train Dance, will be published by Four Way Books in October. Photo and poem from: