Sunday, August 14, 2016
August ushers the augmenting of figs
and enriching of the spectrum
with the sun's lowered slant, a summer height
that softens, to bevel softer yet
with dewier mornings and dewier nights;
a wealth cast of glow and judicious yellow
on groves and swimming pools, on brassy cows
in their wading acres, mown or wild
with wind-mingled seed - so crink-necked, figs lower
sweet by same light that premonishes
the still faraway breath of the first unclasping
leaves; for here, in dumbfound August,
that distant undoing is also close,
yoked, in presence of the ripening,
so hale in mercy, in seasonal ease.
September waits behind a shell door
wind deftly pushes: redolent sunflowers
pewed on the threshold, flashing leaf rungs,
hold past bloom their planetoid stares toward
strung webs, over all the hollows in the dirt.
Silvering the scales of the shelving boughs,
late song rushes up the poplar columns now:
swinging-hinge summer, unlatched; sophia-flushed
the aureole pommes, mottled ripe with red.
Ajar comes the door at the end of August,
wingfully giving to the lightest touch
objectless wonder over sight; fresh bed
reprieved at the breathing window tastes it,
beds paradisial old, broached with spiders
and clicking seeds, undreamed, unlooked for, honed store;
a hidden quantum in this season's ever-Saturday
that gazing bores hollow and full; all that is mounded
at valley's mirroring end, tugging stems of daisies
come out of nothing; blue volleys the land's face out of its lie
hallooing us too, who have our mounds meanwhile.
Mercy's maturity: the blowing summer
grows slack and broken, like swing sets
near a disused tennis court - with memory, empty,
letting the wind through; flown in skirmishes
over the railroad's skinned-shin metal; like birds
that tousle death-tops of the rail-side tansy.
Gravid with sway at the eleventh hour,
the air is raked: like grandfather clocks
intoned with water voices - better far than any fountain -
the dilatory poplars in wind regain their youth;
lift their leaves' pale undersides. Sun sings clearer
on its shorter, lower, shortening lease.
The always forgotten, summer's acquainting
embraces most fully in its waining;
admits no memory in the grass's fainting;
in a bushel of wind, cut off, never recalled,
presence only, on mown hay heat, the cattle's
russet broadsides and blunt-nosed lowing.
Mercy grows not old, but grows on the old
like huckle veins on the stump of sponge
that lets its flutings be bared, its barkless lungs
breathe hummus-faced and root-haired. Mercy is
newer than dew; sets in each wine cellar
a clean cosmos, bottle's innermost. In old grass
beyond recall, father's forth heat units
in the bronzing range, in cottonwoods
that laugh in waves, though laden with dust,
though a horse is broken on the hills. Mercy is
the mountain's quiet messages
sent along the asphalt like wind-sped detritus.
That sword of mountain will await and blaze
world-bordering; first the pearl peak will start to speak
with luminescence in the pressing east,
as in the folding down of dark, before the stars spring,
when through the grass a wind goes wending;
the rasping era of the field's full leaning.
That door does not give way to wheeling sword
but to an outpushing slant that runs the sward
to a snowy light in the impatient evening.
A seasoning humility gathers quotas
down a childhood lane and salted vistas, and the grass floor;
the house of land becomes like a bounding hare.
Fullest when spread every way, mercy is
fullest when fully expended to every
nowhere no way; mercy is rain and plough; the giant
hand on the shoulder with warmth unexpected;
on the bread of land a sleep-eyed kindle. Mercy is
close as the full apples on the head-knock bough.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
"Everyone is singing the praises of technology - 'oh, if we could only use it properly'. It's pure hubris as far as I'm concerned. We are not in charge. We're like the people in the airplanes strapped in the seat. The machine is flying us, not us. We don't fly. We get strapped into machines that fly." --Godfrey Reggio
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Monday, August 8, 2016
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Evidence that musical masterpieces are not confined to the dustbins of the past.
When I first heard this piece, the first thing that came to mind was "Johannes Sebastian Bach" - especially his organ works.