[1]
The edges of the erosion-marks showing up clear
because the sun has just come out from the rain-clouds,
with the cry of the single deer repeated and quiet and tentative.
The multiple fungi stacked in ranks up the tree-side
no longer quite white, because they have mould on them. Stacked
up in ranks on the tree-side
no longer white, having
light mould on them. No
longer quite
light have a white
mould on them.
[2]
You kick open the gulf
just to see what will happen,
what’s in there
that swoop, and screech,
and follow each other, and fool around,
shadows flitting from one green leaf
to another
You sit,
and the normal position for the eyes is
out of focus.
The bright spots dart about
between the cedars;
for the moment, all is silent
save the riverroar.
Siena
et la vie manquée, la vie ratée
time to sit down and be philosophical
and look up
and see there’s no
rest of this tree:
from 15 ft. up, all gone
[3]
No
they were not what we had interpreted them to be,
not the heads of tortoises – snake-headed
periscopes peering out – but sticks
jammed in the sand,
revealing themselves to be this
when the tide went out,
and leaving us to wonder what they would be revealed to be
if the sand went
[4]
cannot keep myself from aligning
things, from
framing them:
even the rock at the back of the shrine
while I’m praying,
even the big deer who is going to die
and thinks I have come to kill him
and stares at me silently, tied to his trap
under his yellow ginkgo
[5]
Picked out with dots in persimmon-colour
on a grey ground
which are for persimmons
which the crows won’t eat,
and brown slashes
which are for sedge,
and firm compacted mud
set with stubble
which is for rice-fields;
the trees raise grey arms, which are for lost leaves;
with everywhere an uncomfortable settling of creatures
which is for winter.
The edges of the erosion-marks showing up clear
because the sun has just come out from the rain-clouds,
with the cry of the single deer repeated and quiet and tentative.
The multiple fungi stacked in ranks up the tree-side
no longer quite white, because they have mould on them. Stacked
up in ranks on the tree-side
no longer white, having
light mould on them. No
longer quite
light have a white
mould on them.
[2]
You kick open the gulf
just to see what will happen,
what’s in there
that swoop, and screech,
and follow each other, and fool around,
shadows flitting from one green leaf
to another
You sit,
and the normal position for the eyes is
out of focus.
The bright spots dart about
between the cedars;
for the moment, all is silent
save the riverroar.
Siena
et la vie manquée, la vie ratée
time to sit down and be philosophical
and look up
and see there’s no
rest of this tree:
from 15 ft. up, all gone
[3]
No
they were not what we had interpreted them to be,
not the heads of tortoises – snake-headed
periscopes peering out – but sticks
jammed in the sand,
revealing themselves to be this
when the tide went out,
and leaving us to wonder what they would be revealed to be
if the sand went
[4]
cannot keep myself from aligning
things, from
framing them:
even the rock at the back of the shrine
while I’m praying,
even the big deer who is going to die
and thinks I have come to kill him
and stares at me silently, tied to his trap
under his yellow ginkgo
[5]
Picked out with dots in persimmon-colour
on a grey ground
which are for persimmons
which the crows won’t eat,
and brown slashes
which are for sedge,
and firm compacted mud
set with stubble
which is for rice-fields;
the trees raise grey arms, which are for lost leaves;
with everywhere an uncomfortable settling of creatures
which is for winter.
Peter Makin