Wednesday, December 28, 2011

River Brink - a cento



The stream is brimful in the grassy fringe


stone bridge among the withes


        old as the elms that shelter it.



A thunder of horses stretches


up the slope       moist necks 


        freed from the harness.





Source text:



Saturday, August 20, 2011

Between Being and Becoming

  
Desire marks each of us so differently

no matter how long, how fiercely we love.

Between being and becoming, we fail


so often, and in such ordinary ways.



See how the sliding days silt in,

taking our other hundred lives with the water -

     each one waiting, having borne us this far,

becoming finned and whole, swimming off.


Silence completes us, simple as those few notes
that answer the dark on a summer night and fall still.







Source text for Cento: selected last lines from Jane Hirshfield's Of Gravity & Angels



Thursday, August 18, 2011

Lush Valley


Cactus spread red-purple blooms,

improbable flowers.


Water rushing, leaves unfolding -


gratitude opened today in the heat.





Cento Source text: Lush by Sandra Vallie

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Scribble the Holy Contour


Scribble everything!

Get drunk with your life, its own dumbsaint mind:  

visionary tics, trance, the true

story of the world interior – jewel center

of recollection. Swim in language,

in the holy contour of life

emblazoned in praise

of wild, undisciplined time.





Bits and pieces culled from Jack Kerouac's 30 Writing Tips

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Raw, Wild Summer


Prey to luminous mornings

  in whose golden pulp
        lay the core of long afternoons

raw      wild      summer
  
  drenched with honey





Cento Source text: The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz (pages 25 & 26)

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Erasure of Neruda's Epithalamium


At first I did not see you: I did not know
  your           presence:
  
the shouts of the wind in the shadow.


Do you remember

how sleep grew
in you,

      how  
               the wind
  
echoed  

      its secret syllable
  
and all things spoke 

of the seed that half opens?


Your name is on the petals

of the rose that grows on the stone,


       a scarlet mouth  

deciphers your name:
  
    broken window

crazy with light.  





Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Ghost Priest - an erasure


A sliding haze

in dark-webbed branches



     wavering gauze-edged, inhabited

     by a voice furred with frost,



a haunt of gilded questions.

love gnaws me


     a phantom

     grace             splits from that pale mist.







*Illustration of erasure*


An erasure of Sylvia Plath's Dialogue Between Ghost and Priest