White all white, but white when it pretends to be yellow
a mustard fellow putting on airs declares
white caps of pretence on its plainer self.
Where else it may begin, below the calm
a storm of sentiment along the white whirling spheres
what hears the water come, a thumb on the rod
Of a well-oiled brush, with rush rounding our sounds
of yellow borrowing blue from the grey
come stay your eyes on a spatter here, a red
Run rattling on the eye, so shy some could call it calm
but lower still the truth tracks color on the canvass
a crass brass last attempt at sunlight, yellow all along.
I appreciate that you have yet to abandon ship. I’ve had a few shocks in the last few weeks and the blog fell through the cracks. Since this was made mainly to accompany a project, and that project is nearing it’s deadline, I will be posting less and less (though more frequently than November and December. Thanks for sticking around.
I promised 100 poems and you will have them… they might just be a little last minute 🙂
from reading a VW
And why bother with plants in barrows when
caughtup in the button-loop and suspended
is a clay face furrow, flanked and filthy–
dark snow in winter hoarding all along
the absence of spring. What now fills
the evening with ink and begs for sleep
there are plants in barrows, surely,
whole pantries full of patient blue eggs
carving spring from the naked woods by
butterknives takes all winter…
hooves collecting flecks of color in cubbords
to cushion the sawdust and seeds. Blance beasts
in blank places stir now despite the snow–
while you were sleeping; while you slept.
Poem 77 Postcard – Poem 77 Revised – Poem 77 Edited