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Sunday, April 13, 2014

Empty


Gone                                                      Malena Morling, from Five Points
          The world
is gone
      like the exact
shape of a cloud
          or the exact shape
of a hand waving
      in the sunlight
from across
          a crowded
train-station
      parking-lot
to another hand
          that waves back.


Come to think of it,
      everything up to now
is gone.
          And I have also

already left
      even though
I still ride
          the train
through the outskirts
      of the city.


And I still sit
          by the window,
the filthy
      train-window
while what is left
          of the demolished
buildings
      go past
and the empty
          billboards
and the transitory
      architecture.


It's amazing
          we're not
more amazed.
      The world
is here
          but then it's gone
like a wave
      traveling toward
other waves.


          Or like
the delicate white
      spaceships
of the Dogwood
          that float
as if there were
      no gravity,
as if there were
          no moments
isolated from
      any other
moments
          anywhere.



*****


Everything that seems empty is full of the angels of God.  St. Hilaire, fourth-century bishop (and patron saint against snake bites)
 
******
Empty similes                                                                  Bob Hicok
Like standing in front of a woman who says thank you
when you tell her you love her, that stuck
sound of a crow, pulling the one nail from its voice
outside your window and you
going down to the sea too late, where it was
three million years ago, waving your little towel
at the shadow of waves, like dropping
your stomach when you drop the phone,
a voice spinning at the end of the chord, your mother,
father, everyone
dead, even the person telling you
gone and you
waving your metronome arm, and time
inside the trees making clocks we check
by cutting them down.
 
******
Genesis                 Herman de Coninck, tr. By Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Kurt Brown
It was the sixth day. Adam was ready.
He saw the oaks firmly rooted
in the void. Power is a matter of branching.
He had seen the mountains, vast storerooms holding
only themselves, high empty cellars.
And deer. With legs as thin as stethoscopes
they stood listening to the breast of the earth,
and as soon as they heard something, they ran away,
inventing pizzicato as they fled the horizon.
And he had seen the sea, the busy swelling and receding
that makes one calm. And the empty, provocative gestures
of the wind, come along, come along, though no one followed.
And the depths, gulfs that make one uneasy. And being silent,
because that's what everything was doing, and being too big.
Then God said: and now you. No, said Adam.
 
******
Bats                                                                 Paisley Rekdal
unveil themselves in dark.
They hang, each a jagged,
silken sleeve, from moonlit rafters bright
as polished knives. They swim
the muddied air and keen
like supersonic babies, the sound
we imagine empty wombs might make
in women who can't fill them up.
A clasp, a scratch, a sigh.
They drink fruit dry.
And wheel, against feverish light flung hard
upon their faces,
in circles that nauseate.
Imagine one at breast or neck,
patterning a name in driblets of iodine
that spatter your skin in stars.
They flutter, shake like mystics.
They materialize. Revelatory
as a stranger's underthings found tossed
upon the marital bed, you tremble
even at the thought. Asleep,
you tear your fingers
through your damp neck hair
and search the sheets all night.

******
Future Tense                                                                                                                                                                                                              Charles Wright

All things in the end are bittersweet—
An empty gaze, a little way-station just beyond silence.

If you can’t delight in the everyday,
                                                         you have no future here.

And if you can, no future either.

And time, black dog, will sniff you out,
                                                            and lick your lean cheeks,
And lie down beside you—warm, real close—and will not move.
  http://www.blackbird.vcu.edu/v6n2/images/bug.gif