Small Demon
Mar 312008
 

Poetics

Here is the world.
It’s a cold place &
There’s not much
you can do with it–
a little shaping or
arranging around
the edges. Pattern
emerges through
accretion of detail.
Denote. Until light
clobbers you hard
in the face, a salt
wave stirred full
of sand & knocks
you off your feet
& nearly drowns
you in the actual.
The world is heavy
it turns out. Hard
with denotations.
You come up sput-
tering. At least I do.

 

 Posted by at 8:45 am

  5 Responses to “A Little Poem During a Cold Spring”

  1. POETICS

    I could feel you
    in every part of my body
    in those first days
    when I was alone or
    with other people
    so much so I wondered
    if they couldn’t feel
    you too the loud
    blood or sudden
    hand reaching for
    something not there
    as if part of you
    wanted them to see
    how much you loved me.

  2. I know all about waves of salt and sand. Beautiful line and poem. There comes a day, usually in May, when I step out and feel the warmth and smell the fertility (however nascent)and understand that winter is hard.

  3. SOMETHING INHERES IN THE MARIGOLD
    (A POEM IN 12 PARTS: 1. AFTER TIME IS RIPE,
    2. ELEVATED FROM WATER, 3. BRICKS,
    SWOLLEN CHILD, 4. INDIGNATION HAS NO
    SUBJECT, 5. AUTUMN LEAVES, 6. KNOWING
    NOT, QUESTIONING NOT, 7. SO WHAT,
    8. BEING, BECOMING, 9. OCTOBER SURFACES,
    10. FINGERING FEELING, 11. STUDY
    REFUTATIONS, 12. FORM IS FUTURE’S)

    1. After Time Is Ripe
    After time is ripe it is banished.
    Root did not come down.
    Nuclear swords, dialectic knots
    hang over camps of candidates
    for Alexander’s shoes.

    Rot eats down,
    seasons repeat new crops—
    scatter as I read in them.

    I stare into futures
    for accidents looming
    in drifts
    in yesterday’s tapestry
    swallowing the “not conscious”
    –Greece, Cathay, constraints
    of Leviticus, Darwin’s determinisms—
    fraying from the Amazon’s mouth.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after time is ripe vanished.

    I change my clothes.

    2. Elevated From Water
    Elevated from water
    paleethnologic suns suffer.

    Ordinary, extraodinary
    everybody plays
    clay sex, hunger stone,
    hostile roles manured to loam.

    Blood victims stomach within
    entailed cities of blind spirit
    urine-daubed on old Spinoza’s wall.

    Coffled evolution’s felt a torture chute.

    Players, played-upon
    working hot from cold floor
    screech to Bergson’s will acts.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    “Of” is “from’s” motive.

    3. Bricks, Swollen Child
    Bricks, swollen child
    queer
    coats,
    hat in outrageous colors
    recreating
    meaning
    from repeating loops
    of changes
    is coral clock,
    common
    Tradition.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    Let grey alder be unkind, scatter.

    4. Indignation Has No Subject
    Indignation has no subject,
    that vise is hinged,
    buried in bone duct:
    an “nothing” will give back.

    Has ash intention
    against vicious frost
    against fragile forgetfulness
    of Kahns?

    When forcing, dilating,
    beating intelligence past
    nature’s width—
    foreigner
    around the corner—
    I feel old, used,
    think nothing inheres
    in the marigold.
    Comes Spring,
    transposing both stranger, the strange,
    and again
    black mirrors, white minutes
    turn again again.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    So I eat
    both ghost and machine.

    5. Autumn Leaves
    Autumn leaves no function to perform.

    I do not affirm, am fearful—dumb.

    Anxious to break-out
    from forced gardens, guessed pleasures,
    from sterilized fringes of
    hooked heat, ordered storm.

    Splintering, bunched stamens
    echo rope, ringing noon—
    as cunning silk strokes
    the emphatic “jug jug”
    throbbing into sheaves
    over shadows of a concert-hall trill.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    Nothing seen, nothing unseen.

    6. Knowing Not, Questing Not
    Knowing not, questioning not,
    supposing I exist,
    exist am compelled,
    what am I afraid of today?

    Barbarians are bureaucrats
    meeting in public rooms
    accented with educated place,

    gushing platitudes,
    deferring to hydras,
    bleeding new herons
    that are the signs of difficult times.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    Ecstatic torments learned in body time.

    7. So What
    So what, some say:
    “In no time IS”:
    4th dimension:

    pre-

    re-

    tension:

    – is rusting marigold
    singing out of stinking shroud,
    swirling
    into fading lilac
    into extensions of old roots
    sucking skull soup, flooding
    thirsting seas of privilege.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    The world arrives when it can.

    8. Being Becoming
    Being Becoming: Essence Existence.

    “A” and “”B” : therefore “C”?

    And “C” because of “D”—

    that “D” precedes “C”?

    Stone of abstractions.

    Truth smells no meta-
    without -physics:
    wants its pillar on fire.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    Visions in camps graze dis-en-hoofed.

    9. October Surfaces
    October surfaces, seeds slumber,
    altering colossal channels.

    I sit on Ashbury’s steps.
    Who’s child sways
    swings
    shipping air with her hair
    slashing
    at Haight’s burning streets?

    Words are smoking in leased houses.

    Recognized faces remain
    to be seen.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe, vanished.

    What I don’t feel
    of dew ‘is’ dew—yet: not.

    10. FINGERING FEELING
    Fingering feeling isolate
    crawl from competence
    to impotence—
    narrowing reality
    to
    primal limits
    coral velvet—
    ideas devolve, mutate: picking
    again at blind windows,
    recurringly articulate;
    burrowing,
    still refusing
    the subject.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    Rather settle for the marble overglare.

    11. STUDY REFUTATIONS
    Study, refutations: all
    mental archeology
    of common contradictions
    is circle, is square, is
    continuous.

    Without Spring, Summers leap
    over shifting
    bulky earth,
    accumulating,
    scaffolding,
    weeding in the womb.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    Each length is measured by a spade and rope.

    12. FORM IS FUTURE’S
    Form is future’s secret
    feet move away with
    even as I
    am unable to hold our symbol,
    entangled in an endless, radiating hope.

    After donning the hat, to wear it.

    March falls heavy
    and the sea swallows
    the flowering apple tree.

    Sudden access, bridge of light
    invade the system with a tonic strike.
    Though cargo and a scar of leaf may rust
    in shredded veins upon a grave of moss,
    brooding exhumes impulse out of mythic stench.

    Between no beginning and without an end,
    lyric spiraling and the leafing mesh
    survives like green shoots in a bowl of dust.

    Until pilgrimage into unrecognizable
    connective tissue sears far enough,
    to move on, over, around
    still swim, following desires.

    So yet, still yet
    where I exist
    is space
    is something
    in root time
    gnawing into now
    after art is ripe vanished.

    It crafts a purpose to defend.

    Something inheres in the marigold.

    Edward Mycue

  4. you come up scut-

    – this very good

  5. sorry; “sput-” of course

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