It’s more than the increasing depth of the day
music
A VERY COMMON FIELD
What is it about this grassy field
that’s so familiar to me? Something
with the beings, the form of the place?
It’s not within
the foxtail,
not within
the brome, not within oat grass
or red clover
or yellow vetch
or the lot of them as one
motion in the wind.
It’s not the morning
or even of the morning,
or of the invisible
crickets, one near, one away,
still sounding
in the damp after dawn.
What is it so resonant and recognized here?
A sense like nostalgia,
like manner,
like a state felt but
not remembered?
It isn’t the center of the purple cornflower
or its rayed and fluted edges, not the slow
rise of the land or the few scattered trees
left in the fallow orchard, not the stone path,
not the grains and bristles of stems and seeds,
each oblivious in its own business,
but something impossible without these.
It’s more than
the increasing depth
of the day and
the blue of its height,
more than the half-body
of the lizard
turned upside down
on the path, torn
It’s not a voice, not a message,
but something like a lingering,
a reluctance to abandon, a biding
so constantly present
that I can never
isolate it
from the disorderly crows
passing over or
from the sun moving
as wind down through the brief fires
of moisture on the blades of timothy
and sage, never separate it
from the scent
of fields drying and warm, never
isolate it from
my own awareness.
It is something
that makes possible,
that occasions without causing,
something
I can never extricate
to name, never
name to know,
never know to imitate.
— Pattiann Rogers
A VERY COMMON FIELD
What is it about this grassy fieldthat’s so familiar to me? Something
with the beings, the form of the place?
It’s not withinthe foxtail,
not within
the brome, not within oat grass
or red clover
or yellow vetch
or the lot of them as one
motion in the wind.
It’s not the morningor even of the morning,
or of the invisible
crickets, one near, one away,
still sounding
in the damp after dawn.
What is it so resonant and recognized here?A sense like nostalgia,
like manner,
like a state felt but
not remembered?
It isn’t the center of the purple cornflower
or its rayed and fluted edges, not the slow
rise of the land or the few scattered trees
left in the fallow orchard, not the stone path,
not the grains and bristles of stems and seeds,
each oblivious in its own business,
but something impossible without these.
It’s more thanthe increasing depth
of the day and
the blue of its height,
more than the half-body
of the lizard
turned upside down
on the path, torn
and transfigured during the night, more
than the bells beginning their lesson in the background.
than the bells beginning their lesson in the background.
It’s not a voice, not a message,but something like a lingering,
a reluctance to abandon, a biding
so constantly present
that I can never
isolate it
from the disorderly crows
passing over or
from the sun moving
as wind down through the brief fires
of moisture on the blades of timothy
and sage, never separate itfrom the scent
of fields drying and warm, never
isolate it from
my own awareness.
It is something
that makes possible,
that occasions without causing,
something
I can never extricate
to name, never
name to know,
never know to imitate.
— Pattiann Rogers
Labels: art tatum, cuno amiet, grace dean, hans frank, hashiguchi goyo, henri riviere, hiroshi yoshida, pattiann rogers, poetry, tobari kogan
posted by lotusgreen at 2:46 PM
1 comments
