Nervy Mention of Autumn's Arrival
Wallace Stevens wrote after all, then after all again. It was spots on the wall that made the most. A few partitioners relayed their facts, gifted in a place where marshes collect the dew and mist. Rains became the same expected, from southern winds across the bold and heartfelt ocean. Which is to say, a poetry, guided fondly, ran into being. Being here, telling something posed and remaining, the poet, this one, tried some lurches. We who read, or thought we did, popped into the bounty, for seconds on end. The poem really urged a more pliant remorse. This remorse is dandy today, with marks drawn across the state of Connecticut to indicate that the economy sucks. It has always sucked, deeply, imperiously, with goods and margin. Now, friends, it sucks with wolfish chuckle. Stevens did not exactly mean this, but he must have meant something with all those words aligned just so. Meaning is a force of nature, like a hurricane named Kyle. Yes, such a statement is ludicrous, Kyle is too odd a name to place on weight, bsut Stevens worked out his messages with a deliberation that seems easy to respond to. We should vote him some award, for being so perfectly acceptable. He numbers one of many, but still resumes his clauses. He could have lived in Worcester, had he only tried.
Bad to the Bonestell
The fountain of resentment
is oasis in despair,
the desert's final testament
and ego's thorny choir.
Suppose each thwart gave off
flickers of tender charm;
suppose our friction taught
how to unfurl in time...
First Day
The first day of fall comes foggy to St. Louis.
The Starling are gathering in flocks to fly south over the roofs of red brick homes as the squirrels are storing away their cash against the hunger of winter.
The nights grow cooler and the garden is going to seeds as flocks of geese over head honk their formation of V.
On que the leaves of city trees are loosing their green, dropping their dressing to the delight of children who kick the fallen spoils that hid the sparrow nest nested among the branches of oaks, silver maples and cottonwoods growing at the bank of Boone Pond where the frogs sun themselves.
Today I shall remove the air-condition from the window; all summer long it has served me well but is no longer need to hum its cooling calm into my once heated room.
I shall go into the basement and unpack my sweaters and fall jackets and put away my shorts and thin cotton short sleeve shirts.
Now is the time to start saving for Christmas , its time to get my house in order, to clean the filter of the furnace, to clean out the garden, to change the batteries of the smoke detectors and to can some apples; all ritual of fall.
The sun has risen above the horizon and is busy burning off the fog. The traffic noise from a main thoroughfare near by has increased as people go about their busy work day.
A gray squirrel is running alone the telephone cable strung from pole to pole down the alley. It is time for me to be as busy as bees harvesting the last bit of pollen from the mums and four-o-clocks still in bloom.
The Starling are gathering in flocks to fly south over the roofs of red brick homes as the squirrels are storing away their cash against the hunger of winter.
The nights grow cooler and the garden is going to seeds as flocks of geese over head honk their formation of V.
On que the leaves of city trees are loosing their green, dropping their dressing to the delight of children who kick the fallen spoils that hid the sparrow nest nested among the branches of oaks, silver maples and cottonwoods growing at the bank of Boone Pond where the frogs sun themselves.
Today I shall remove the air-condition from the window; all summer long it has served me well but is no longer need to hum its cooling calm into my once heated room.
I shall go into the basement and unpack my sweaters and fall jackets and put away my shorts and thin cotton short sleeve shirts.
Now is the time to start saving for Christmas , its time to get my house in order, to clean the filter of the furnace, to clean out the garden, to change the batteries of the smoke detectors and to can some apples; all ritual of fall.
The sun has risen above the horizon and is busy burning off the fog. The traffic noise from a main thoroughfare near by has increased as people go about their busy work day.
A gray squirrel is running alone the telephone cable strung from pole to pole down the alley. It is time for me to be as busy as bees harvesting the last bit of pollen from the mums and four-o-clocks still in bloom.
Question 67 and 68
The land of the dead is and is not like a prison: we don't have to queue for the phone and we carry our cells with us at all times. It is more about whether the person we want to speak to will be there when we call. And so assuage our loneliness. The ones we are with cannot do this - companionable, yes, but not warm in the way that the living are. Warmth is what we long for because it is cold down here, yes, it's cold way down here. We are haunted by songs that we cannot sing, cannot hear, not even in memory, unless we can make that connection and feel one of those fugitive melodies flood through. Those cold wires, those wireless wires, that blood radio ... please pick up the phone. We have nothing to say but our longing but, and this is where we are companionable beyond measure, do you? Have anything to say? To us? Question 67 and 68. There is one child left and a world to carry on, to carry on.
Giant Bible Horoscope for Life
the shudder of the utter
satcybanzu light
the jack is on back order
offstage there is falling
read by lantern
the beginning of all your days
we knew it at the time as
running out of this & that
solitary figure by the road
standing with predatory intentness
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