a thesis of weaves and hallows
Beware of gnawing
the ideogram of nothingness:
Your teeth will crack. Swallow it whole, and you’ve a treasure
Beyond the hope of Buddha and the Mind. The east breeze
Fondles the horse’s ears:
how sweet the smell of plum.
Karasumaru-Mitsuhiro (1579-1638) 1
Before the long silence,
the monks make a long soft rustling,
adjusting their robes.
“Pine” by Chase Twichell from The Snow Watcher published by Ontario Review Press. © 1998 by Chase Twichell.
Name them something else
if you wish, but needled shadow
and substance are, in this hour,
an architecture of philosophy.
the ideogram of nothingness:
Your teeth will crack. Swallow it whole, and you’ve a treasure
Beyond the hope of Buddha and the Mind. The east breeze
Fondles the horse’s ears:
how sweet the smell of plum.
Karasumaru-Mitsuhiro (1579-1638) 1
The first night at the monastery,
a moth lit on my sleeve by firelight,
long after the first frost.
a moth lit on my sleeve by firelight,
long after the first frost.
Before the long silence,
the monks make a long soft rustling,
adjusting their robes.
The deer are safe now. Their tracks
are made of snow. The wind has dragged
its branches over their history.
Chase Twichell
are made of snow. The wind has dragged
its branches over their history.
Chase Twichell
“Pine” by Chase Twichell from The Snow Watcher published by Ontario Review Press. © 1998 by Chase Twichell.
THIS LITTLE GLADE, REMEMBER
Name them something else
if you wish, but needled shadow
and substance are, in this hour,
an architecture of philosophy.
And a rising wind, called ”a rough
and bawdy wind“ by a rough and bawdy
voice, is that wind and that voice
transformed. The structure of words
sways and bends in the blow.
and bawdy wind“ by a rough and bawdy
voice, is that wind and that voice
transformed. The structure of words
sways and bends in the blow.
Looking away into the clear sky, expectation shifts. Vision becomes/ a welcome to guests
of crows in new/ dimensions who themselves become/ not only depth and horizon
in a circus/ of wings but old vision’s startling visitors.
of crows in new/ dimensions who themselves become/ not only depth and horizon
in a circus/ of wings but old vision’s startling visitors.
Not soul alone, but soul consumed
by a single bee descending into the center
of a purple mountain lily is soul
to a soul suckled in sleep.
by a single bee descending into the center
of a purple mountain lily is soul
to a soul suckled in sleep.
Earth and human together
form a unique being. A brief era
of immortality is lent to each
by the other. Move momentarily
now—with hovering granite cliff,
with sun-stripe flick of perhaps
vagrant shrew, with raised tack
of mightly larkspur—into this company.
Pattiann Rogers
form a unique being. A brief era
of immortality is lent to each
by the other. Move momentarily
now—with hovering granite cliff,
with sun-stripe flick of perhaps
vagrant shrew, with raised tack
of mightly larkspur—into this company.
Pattiann Rogers
“This Little Glade, Remember” from Generations.
Copyright © 2004 by Pattiann Rogers.
Copyright © 2004 by Pattiann Rogers.
Labels: bairei kono, Chase Twichell, Karasumaru-Mitsuhiro, keinen imao, koho shoda, Max Laeuger, muller bros., pattiann rogers, pewabic tile, pine, poetry, rene lalique, roseville pottery, weller pottery
4 Comments:
Another lovely, lovely post! I especially like that last piece of pottery. Is it Weller?
thanks, willow. i think it's more likely rookwood, but i don't know for sure.
oh lotus - such beauty and such deep poems. I have come to love Patiann Rogers thanks to you. and now this dazzling image in the Pine-poem: the sound of summer as the sound of an emptying bottle...
oh the thought that i should have introduced you to pattiann rogers gladdens my heart. yes, and you picked out the two images that most resonated for me too.
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hi, and thanks so much for stopping by. i spend all too much time thinking my own thoughts about this stuff, so please tell me yours. i thrive on the exchange!
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