01-31-2011, 06:54 AM
Hey, I have been revising a couple of older poems. The one I am interested in getting feedback from is a bit difficult, so bare with it. I hope you enjoy.
Fractal I
(On Deep Time)
Each has come to this border
to write themselves in stone.
Here, where the Missouri River
cuts an ancient coast in cross-section
are records of obsolescence: remnants
of fan like shells, belemnite fragments,
life before stone gathered them in gradients.
You have until this instant forgotten
the to be unfolding from the page,
and from this past at hand, I have
a question of seem and other didactics—
like how a polished stone was once
an ammonite’s shell, opalized in volcanic ash.
It has no memory of its ancient inland seas
or how beneath sediment life becomes stone
as it measures the cool weight of seasons.
If this is you or me or the history
of any lived poem—if stars fission
an ageless bundled energy or leaves
squall a saffron light on city sidewalks
none of this is here until you are here.
This is before there were flowers on earth,
and what we read is told from landscapes
in limestone two-hundred-million-years-ago.
If these thing are no more than shadows,
reality plays in the lamp light on cave walls,
and you have killed the only one
who ever whispered truth in your ear
for the love of illusion. If a poem is its own
reality and you dot your eyes with ink stains
and suffuse yourself in texture and frissons,
you have breathed again in the early light,
you have seen yourself written into strata.
Fractal I
(On Deep Time)
Each has come to this border
to write themselves in stone.
Here, where the Missouri River
cuts an ancient coast in cross-section
are records of obsolescence: remnants
of fan like shells, belemnite fragments,
life before stone gathered them in gradients.
You have until this instant forgotten
the to be unfolding from the page,
and from this past at hand, I have
a question of seem and other didactics—
like how a polished stone was once
an ammonite’s shell, opalized in volcanic ash.
It has no memory of its ancient inland seas
or how beneath sediment life becomes stone
as it measures the cool weight of seasons.
If this is you or me or the history
of any lived poem—if stars fission
an ageless bundled energy or leaves
squall a saffron light on city sidewalks
none of this is here until you are here.
This is before there were flowers on earth,
and what we read is told from landscapes
in limestone two-hundred-million-years-ago.
If these thing are no more than shadows,
reality plays in the lamp light on cave walls,
and you have killed the only one
who ever whispered truth in your ear
for the love of illusion. If a poem is its own
reality and you dot your eyes with ink stains
and suffuse yourself in texture and frissons,
you have breathed again in the early light,
you have seen yourself written into strata.