you exist interferometry

lost 19: you exist interferometry

they shoot and shoot and run after people don’t they. she pulls the pig’s head and bum apart, the head part just something that makes a pig run, sets these horrors loose. death is only imaginary, the trodden path to the wattle fence, the squabbling and killing. it was a fine wool clip, from the care of horses and cattle to the long bow tribulations of men. those who took the cross, so be it. unchidden to the last scruple of pain or love, he was yet able to capture what bird-watchers call the bird’s ‘giss’, its essence, and that was enough. animate you coat hanger aerials, wrecking yard doors the wrong colour, on your own oil stain, flash of doozy dudgeon ecdysiast, the stripper iridescent on rainy days like today. things that swarm should now withdraw forgetful. we yet us bingo sing play let decay and composition, the protosemic protosemantic in his essay, the cherry trees he promised, becoming the clinamen epistemes; particularly then from where do they get their souls erroneous. you did not actually fly did you; you were too wide around, and far bigger than the average cow – interferometry, memory stick. the behind. to carry you to said final ferocious ecology, evade the plummet towards absolute zero, laugh. ontological mainstay as network of signification, but not of accessible reading habits. we have scilla siberica i think

….and why the cover of Stuart Ross’s latest book at the top of the post??? you ask. Because I really, really, very much really like this collection! The title of the book also fits the theme somehow (whatever theme there is…) that of the ‘we yet us bingo sing play’,

Two contributions from Grant: If this shahai doesn’t get printed out by most readers and pinned up on bulletin or fridge, there’s something wrong… The poem will speak for itself.

Juxtapositions VII

is winter immediate past
or future

a daffodil unfolds sun
and shadow in frost

we are so happy
talking problems on and on

and your solution to all
now i have everything

all the usual things to have
and to be upset about

finally i changed
can’t we just be friends

well … … yes!
and we never spoke again

at least a goshawk lets you know
both owl and snake die

the squirrel i fed
lily bulb in its paws

proffered tim horton’s cup
clink of looney on looney

yes she says
there is somebody else

expecting jealousy
surprised by impotence

and for the she-merlin
a sparrow as a gourmet meal

while the male keeps
his talons spread and relaxed

there in the apple
the flesh, the juice

the heart-shaped ovaries
burgeoning seeds of too much

never seeing the dark something
that struck and missed

the wind
in the long grass

was it for real
that love scene

all the earth tones
siddhartha’s woman dies of snakebite

his thousand faces/voices
… being … the river’s … OMMMMM …

Again from Southword Magazine, Ireland, via Riddle Fence, a poet I’d not read before but for whom I’ll be on the lookout: Carmelita McGrath:

Adam and Eve on a Winter Afternoon

Adam comes in from sawing wood
with a chip on his shoulder.
And grunts. And heaves the wood down,
a heavy drop filled with creeping, unsaid things,
to the woodbox.

And Eve is trying to imagine it not there,
that slow and trembling thing within his breath
that lives between inhale and exhale. This
must be just exertion, and yet it feels
like a weapon, not quite secret but concealed.

She has words for such days – wood hyacinth,
aurora borealis, Harley-Davidson – either
ethereal beauty or a fast-flying escape.
But the kitchen is a trap baited with supper cooking
and the imminent arrival of children.

And Adam says, “Whas for supper?”
And Eve says, “Soup.”
And he says, “Any meat in it?
I hope you’re not off meat again. Growing
children need their protein. And this
is no climate to be eating like rabbits.”

And then the old clock rescued from a house
where pouncing bargain hunters drove deals at a death sale
hammers four o’clock home.

And Eve thinks that four o’clocks are old-fashioned flowers,
and she stirs the soup and plunks down
in her bentwood rocker with her seed catalogues,
thinks crocosnia
thinks branching tulip
thinks Apricot Beauty
thinks hemerocallis

And the ragged thing between breath and breath
is there again, just for a second, a thing of air
with claws and teeth.

And Adam goes out for another load
before the early dark sinks in on him,
and while his saw buzzes
the language of massacre on wood
thinks tomorrow’s Friday
thinks pint of Guinness
thinks at least she dyed her hair
thinks I can hear the children

Their footsteps saw over frozen grass, their voices
high, inadvertently calling everything back together,
one of them playing a blackbird’s call on a recorder.

A response to yesterday’s conversation, from Grant:
Maybe what we’re looking for in poetry is a needed homeostasis. In biology: a return to an established norm. May not be the best state for you but it is what is biologically comfortable for the indiviudual. All biological development is a struggle between the tendency towards entropy vis a vis the need for and tendency toward greater and more organized information. This is part related to the drive for fitness and the fact of competing morphologies. In poetry, readers and poets are off balance, and/but driven toward another another imbalance in the attempt to re-establish an unrealizable homeostasis. Complete balance is essentially, biologically speaking, the end, the final catastrophe, of a life … death. Cosmologically speaking, it is complete entropy, the balanced and uniform distribution of energy and matter that ends all events, anything that recognizes the, and the recognizable, universe. Art to be art, to have life, needs an element of of imbalance, and a degree of unacceptability. Humpf. Grant.

Oh Grant, and everyone whose ideas i’ve posted so far, I do hope you keep this going, now and then or always, and it would be great to have others join in. It’s not something I’m good at, but I love seeing it happen. Comments, it’s all about these intelligent comments. How else will I know what I’m trying to do???