Material Space 2
Winter Yellow
Winter Yellow
I havens
a decline.
Beyond
what all
eternal —
given back.
And fillet
Alms.
*****
1.
Little faith to hold against
the coming drought. This prayer,
to butter an offering. Fat’s
in the fire. Kitty’s on
the old cross stove. But
I am nothing to the
one I love. Loved me.
Love me back. Expect not
another—here’s a truth—no,
frank and dunned to obstacle.
Give here, her wonder not
to speak. Her time alive
passed singing. The fire sings
her aged grey skin alive.
Held close by faith, creamed
scent. The flakes of skin,
her oils, clung to my
fat for years. I bathe
in water yellow hot, I
clean my bones then butter
them against the coming cold.
*****
2.
Skin to warmth so thankful.
Let praise the stove’s fire,
dull orange against the muted
blue of cold. Its cost.
A litre of kerosene—drips.
Some slop spilled dries quickly.
Only the harsh scent left
on dry hands. It paid.
Sulphur in the air much
after the match put out.
Where it burned my skin.
The white scar colder than
the stove’s gunmetal finish. Clouds
with heat. The wounded hand,
the stove, afraid of fire.
Alcohol damps the wound.
Why is sulphur rotten yellow?
Decayed to flame. The scar
decayed into a jellied yolk.
Chapped hands, the skin slough
as corn snow. And slow ache
as embers kindle in them.
*****
3.
Bone sharp in back a
tool, else an offering—for
birch shaves thinner skin, transparent
under pressured light. To sink.
Lead into sand, onto glass
froth. Lung’s volume sphere of
even pressure. Lines are stammer,
cooling in the shrunken wait.
Glass shade in splinter driven
under nail. The cotton whisky
calms, the dark shop turned
on edge. A lasting light.
Bar across the head. Screwed
tighter. Finite progress. The pain
free as salt. Huddled closer
to the heat’s burn. Slowly
peel away the skin. Clean
dry as a knife, press
lemon into salt, astringent,
and the bone withdraws.
Cold, the hand scars smooth
as butter. Wood blind
to steel, cringe from
the saw’s buzz. Waiting dusk.
*****
4.
Abstract while another follows, fills
with dirt. Into a life
found wanting what he chose.
Still to follow down.
I have lied to you.
To want you want me
Back. Pour oil over clay
and feed the multitude.
Sealed in. I cough. Enough
plant crocus under frost. Spend
winter careful of my throat.
Its smooth stone lozenged sore.
Snow soothes the fat, gelid
onto bone. Waiting. The first
frost followed by a cold
snap harsher than before.
We live, borrowing what we
need. Satisfied by cold, spring
always comes. And spring’s renewal
holds us in the earth.
*****
5.
Cross hatched, the longing through
to empty sieve. Bent parallels,
our gestures even framed against
a dour length of rain.
Driven in. The form eclipsed
by appetite, she ties string
to our fingers. Ties each
one tighter each day. Mawking
the scrawl. Enduring these renewals,
we soak in ice water.
Ease the swelling, my arthritic
wrist as healed. If dull
glimpses of a waiting past,
our bodies clean. Our hands
alter the pain, as rain
humiliates our skin. Our peace.
*****
Postlude
The limit shrinks with age
until the body is confined
within its self. Each increment
made smaller. Each movement more
precise in its pain. Lasts
a moment longer. Slow enough
to sense the mass of
light in the skin. The
decay and renewal in the
lungs with each sharp breath.
The present past turns in
smaller circles. Lathes the will
into a point. The recess
drawn through, sheds weight.
A white hole, vanishing in . . .
This poem uses a five word form that I learned from Louis Zukofsky who used it in A-22 and A-23 and then in 80 Flowers. This word based metric is intentionally awkward in English, where words can have very different weights. I believe Zukofsky was influenced by classical Chinese Shi, which have a fixed number of characters per line, often five.
Zukofsky experienced words as objects, in a sort of flat ontology (although that phrase only came into use quite recently) where each word is of equal significance, even connectives.
Linguistic texture, not rhythmic structure, is what counts.
A is one of the few poems with an index. a, an, and the, all appear in the index and are treated as words of significance in the poem. One book I have been studying recently is The Connectives by Lloyd Humberstone. This book is becoming a map to my own writing.
Originally published in Writing 19, November 1987. Thanks to Colin Browne. Written in Japan, it became part of my move to Vancouver in September 1988.
I really like these ones. I didn’t remember that you had worked in this form way back then. You have a good feel for the five word per line. It really works. Hope you do more.