Monday, March 18, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
to relieve the restlessness of one's heart.
All the Difficult Hours and Minutes
BY JANE HIRSHFIELD
All the difficult hours and minutes
are like salted plums in a jar.
Wrinkled, turn steeply into themselves,
they mutter something the color of sharkfins to the glass.
Just so, calamity turns toward calmness.
First the jar holds the umeboshi, then the rice does.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Monday, March 4, 2013
A Collaboration with George Angel
his words, my image
Heap Is the Punctuation of Tumbling
"Ask a drum to expectorate.
Hammering has made me
As stupid as a reflex.
Dust is the grey matter
I am left with.
Blockages of breath,
The debris of honking,
Make radios almost pastoral.
Leaps to connect minutes.
Like voices calling out to each other,
Across mounds of shoveled noise,
They stutter and fall short
Trembling, muted by syllables,
Spaces drilled into
What is opened out of, rubbish."
my image, his words
"I carry the street in the rain in my hands.
The sun had fallen out like an unspun bulb,
Like butter icarussed down into my bowl.
The valley in autumn another nestle just,
Glistens the shatter of a frame, shadowed
My brow, the falling away of the street
In the rain, the facades thicken my fingers,
Seal me away beneath a silent gaze,
Its pane of milky light between us.
To balance a membrane mesmer,
Meander your attention over the motif
Light curdles out of the surface
Of the air spilling between houses
Where I carry the street in the rain."