Must I, in this question
I am asking, include myself
Asking it? Must I include my
face—
My face that I cannot
see—through which I speak
This question about my eyes,
about the field
Of vision, in which my hands
press down these letters
Unattached to my arms? The
sunlight
Comes in the window and lights
up my hands
As they work. The world is not
being kind
But there is the sensation of
kindness.
There is an appeal to a rule
when we realize a term
Behaves uncomfortably. God
falls down
Into grammar and says
I am but the words are spoken
From a bush on fire. God is
included in this grammar
Philosophy offers to the fly
stuck in the bottle—
There it is on the table,
walking in circles within the empty
Bottle, pausing only to rub
its forelegs together,
In anticipation or prayer. I
remember
Walking into the glass-walled
museum and seeing myself
Reflected in the head and in
the belly of the metal rabbit’s
Mirror-like skin. This was not
long ago, this experience
Of the ancient world, reason
simultaneous with appetite,
Watching myself think, seeing
my eyes thinking,
My body a body that contained
this thinking
That I write in the margins of
the books I read, a script
That over time appears less
legible, a form
Of cuneiform I cannot read
myself what I wrote
In the margins. There is a
fragment that floats in the air
Floating in my mind, spoken by
a voice not mine:
To study circumcises the heart
and calms,
The book steadies the heart
[many words are missing
Or
illegible] if not, to turn away,
Fire courses through the veins
[many words are
Missing or
illegible] then
Anger, anger. Leaning back in
the tall grass,
Putting my book aside, my toe
covers the sun.
I am imagining this world but
I’m inviting you in
So I can join you. In the old
language, the language
No one ever spoke, the
language whose words
In the scholarly papers are
marked by stars,
Asterisks that say this word
exists by not existing,
The imaginary root pushing
down from the sky
Into our heads, the root of
the tongue;
In this language “I” meant
“here,” it did not mean “me,”
It meant a location in which
this body I am
Was not an expression of love
but a word of
Presence. Here I am. Voice in
a boundary.
In this place I am I once had
a dream.
Cylindrical seals rolled
across the earth
Printing in the mud the image
of a woman braiding
Her hair was loose and then
her hair was bound.
These roads end at the horizon
where I also end,
Present in this world as the
alphabet is present
In this poem. *I.
*I. Sometimes *I like to
stutter.
*I
like to think the sky is blue. *I see sometimes it’s
red.
More soon on the
nature of impossible constructions.
The man in the moon. The sea
rose. The living room.
Museums by Dan Beachy-Quick, via 1
The Outfit:
White Linen Wide Leg Trouser Suit: from a charity shop
White Top Underneath: very old from the high street
Vintage Pearl Necklace: passed down from late granny Penny
Faux Pearl Bracelets: from Accessorize
Faux Wolf Fur Shrug: present from an ex boyfriend over a decade ago
Two Tone Leather Brogues: bought in the sale from Toast
The Soundtrack
Claude Debussy: Estampes Pagodes
Photographs of me by Mr Eve, taken when we went for a drink at Combe House, using my little digital camera.
I'm behind on my post visits, as usual, but looking forward to catching up on all your lovely blogs in the coming days!
I'm delighted to be a part of the next Visible Monday, hosted by the lovely Patti from www.notdeadyetstyle.blogspot.co.uk, click on the website link to see her outfit and those of many others.
