Walking on the Shore in Late August
--Robert Bly 
I look out over the muddy lake.
All at once I see a fin rise, what alertness!
All my brain power pours toward that spot on the water.
How we long for a bit of consciousness to appear above
..............the water! 
Now I notice what I have never noticed before,
Bending over graceful,
At the shoreline… 
Mother take me deeper—
Take me on your fins down…


This is
--Amanda Auerbach 
Let there be light.
Let there be forms.
I make the woods.
Let woods make woods. 
Let creeks wind through
Let rocks break ground.
They need no lakes.
They need no pinks. 
Three things are all
I need to make
Each one is good?
Each one makes beings. 
Let these see all
as being good.
I shall make them
not see further. 
If they seek more
They will not live.
Let them not seek
What we don’t make. 
You may make pinks.
The wood will fruit.
The light will help
The creeks reveal 
What you can see.
What can you see
That you should seek
And nothing more? 
What you can make
Is something else.

[via conjunctions]


[ The Spinach Tree ; William Sommer (1934) ].......

[L'Arbre Dans L'Art]


Jasmine's Beautiful Thoughts Underneath The Willow
--Wallace Stevens 
My titillations have no foot-notes
And their memorials are the phrases
Of idiosyncratic music. 
The love that will not be transported
In an old, frizzled, flambeaud manner,
But muses on its eccentricity, 
Is like a vivid apprehension
Of bliss beyond the mutes of plaster,
Or paper souvenirs of rapture, 
Of bliss submerged beneath appearance,
In an interior ocean's rocking
Of long, capricious fugues and chorals.


Of Bright & Blue Birds & The Gala Sun
--Wallace Stevens 
Some things, niño, some things are like this,
That instantly and in themselves are gay
And you and I are such things, O most miserable... 
For a moment they are gay and are a part
Of an element, the exactest element for us,
In which we pronounce joy like a word of our own. 
It is there, being imperfect, and with these things
And erudite in happiness, with nothing learned,
That we are joyously ourselves and we think 
Without the labor of thought, in that element,
And we feel, in a way apart, for a moment, as if
There was a bright scienza outside of ourselves, 
A gaiety that is being, not merely knowing,
The will to be and to be total in belief,
Provoking a laughter, an agreement, by surprise.


Poem of a Forest of Clouds Sweeping By
--C. D. Wright 
your life blew past as a shirt off a line
but then turned and turned again
O Archangel of the Mirror
what would you have done
it's been said that over the years
the house sustained the smell
of fresh-cooked trout and the rest
as we well know is still journeying


from One Big Self
--C. D. Wright 
Count your fingers 
Count your toes 
Count your nose holes 
Count your blessings 
Count your stars (lucky or not) 
Count your loose change 
Count the cars at the crossing 
Count the miles to the state line 
Count the ticks you pulled off the dog 
Count your calluses 
Count your shells 
Count the points on the antlers 
Count the newjack’s keys 
Count your cards; cut them again


from Summer Nights, Walking ].........
"Still photographs often differ from life more by their silence than by the immobility of their subjects. Landscape pictures tend to converge with life, however, on summer nights, when the sounds outside, after we call in children and close garage doors, are small – the whir of moths, the snap of a stick." 
--Robert Adams

[via this isn't happiness]


--Jaya Savige 
Dense night is a needs thing. 
You were lured
.....in a luminous canoe
said to have once ruled
.....a lunar ocean. 
.....The 2 am soda pour
of stars is all but silent;
only listen —  
...sedater than a sauropod
.....in the bone epics
it spills all the moon spice, 
.....releasing a sap odour
..........that laces
.....us to a vaster scale
..........of road opus. 
A carousel of oral cues,
these spinning sonic coins. 
A slide show of old wishes.


At Home
--Gregoire Turgeon 
Night lifts the roofs
from houses, reaches in,
pushes chairs farther
into the corners, studies people
who do not move
from room to room. 
Dreams return, spiders
back to thread the same webs
of sleep. The moist dust
of the carpenter's dream
clings to his shoes and skin.
The tailor's dream
turns itself inside out
again and again. 
The body shifts
in bed. The dream
dances in darkness.
The tongue slides in
the closed mouth
and no one is far from home.


’til soon
--Paulo Leminski (trans. Elisa Wouk Almino) 
Even you, raw matter,
even you, lumber, mass and muscle,
vodka, liver and chuckle,
candlelight, paper, coal and cloud,
stone, avocado meat, falling rain,
nail, mountain, hot-press iron,
even you feel saudade,
first-degree burn,
a longing to return home? 
Clay, sponge, marble, rubber,
cement, steel, glass, vapor, cloth and cartilage,
paint, ash, eggshell, grain of sand,
first day of autumn, the word spring,
number five, the slap in the face, a rich rhyme,
a new life, middle age, old strength,
even you, matter my dear,
remember when we were only a mere idea?

[via asymptote]


More or Less On Time
--Paulo Leminski (trans. Chris Daniels) 
.......Condemned to be precise,
if I could just be a vague
.......will-o-the-wisp over a lake,
equally deceptive
.......to flier, swimmer, liar,
mosquito, frog, snake. 
.......Condemned to be precise
for a time so refined,
.......a time so timeless
it might as well be space,
.......precise, how surprising,
lozenge, meter, barline,
what I don’t want, wanting.


[ The Summer Meadow ; Franz von Lenbach ]..........


Roadside Park Pastoral 
Indefinite sea wide sky,
amorphous cloud wafts
in driftless depths while
finger tipped with wings,
brushing blind fullness
of solar candescence. 
Ignorance affords such
days past the calendar,
wrist watch at the bottom
of the still pond, maturate
obsidian found in open
eyes of silent sunfish. 
When moonlight segues
sidelong silver-white,
dew will slip the ground thin,
the wood bench to sit
engraved with magic
marker and ballpoint pen.


--Frank O’Hara 
Oh! Kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas!
You really are beautiful! Pearls,
harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins! All
the stuff they’ve always talked about 
still makes a poem a surprise!
These things are with us every day
even on beachheads and biers. They
do have meaning. They’re strong as rocks.


--Frank O'Hara 
Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth 
it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners 
the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water 
I wouldn't want to be faster or greener
than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days


[Creation of the World; Mikalojus Ciurlionis (1906)]......


From the Hilltop
--Tomas Tranströmer (trans. Robin Fulton) 
I stand on the hill and look across the bay.
The boats rest on the surface of summer.
"We are sleepwalkers. Moons adrift."
So say the white sails. 
"We slip through a sleeping house.
We gently open the doors.
We lean toward freedom."
So say the white sails. 
Once I saw the wills of the world sailing.
They held the same course-- one single fleet.
"We are dispersed now. No one's escort."
So say the white sails.


[ Leelanau Co/Old Mission Peninsula/Traverse City, MI ]...


[ King Tubby Meets the Rockers Uptown ; Monty Alexander]


--Jeff Hardin 
I can't keep track
of existence.
One day it's a cuckoo,
the next day moldy bread. 
Someone reading Dickinson
looks up,
takes a sip,
lives again in Circumference. 
Nero, I grant permission
to burn down
my neighborhood,
its yacking nightingales. 
Someone steals past
with a psalm in his heart,
its grit so certain
jackals back away.

[via verse daily


That Which Nothing Greater Can Be Thought Of
--Jeff Hardin 
Rain ticking through the window screen,
sky vast on the other side
....................................of the vaster other side— 
I bow here to imagine myself small, smaller,
no more than a leaf tipped,
........................................letting it all slip and be gone.

[via Still: The Journal]


The Beard is the Grass of the Bald-Headed Man  Friedensreich Hundertwasser (1961) 


Tropic of Erasure 
Viscous air, wood grain
ferment, curdled plaster,
a humidity deepened
by an undone narrative
thought in conversion,
the cup of a worn self
from folded stasis
to evaporate passage 
Out the window that is eve,
residual induced algae,
sump rallied hours alive
on chlorophyll gestures
mussed with skunk paths
afloat through spiderwort
plumes beside a fern burrow
siphoning vestal silence, 
Oh how ground coils
with liquid atmosphere
as fulminous prescience
triggers off horizons
rife with lightning,
the earthen quake,
verboten thunder,
offensively charged 
Prying planetary time,
pneumatic and phasic
surge expanse that is
this furtive doom,
where reaction slides
in melanistic steps
beyond the thin option
known as memory- 
That personal ritual
comprised and contorted
in its own image,
a name, an abundance,
an old trap sprung
empty when it falls
upon itself in solvent
dilutions of squishy
moss and rain