Runboard.com
You're welcome.
Community logo


runboard.com       Sign up (learn about it) | Sign in (lost password?)


 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Terreson's word hoard (2)


Poems from another collection called Waypoints. '93 - '97. Pretty sure I invented the operative line rhythm used. Implicate rhythm.


In Season Song
 
In sacred season song
to moon sail wearing amber comb
when closer cloud cannot cover
quartzstone light through shale of night,
when hoarse wind hum raises on roof
and white water wears away
slaty shore's edge worn away while
wondering how ever to come so close,
with still only hope and only hope
knowing never has the closer touch
come other than the dream;
 
when love's gone south or turned back
under or asleep, when fingers
have part before sediment rock
while cold cheek to mineral speaks,
pressing print in captive cut of shape
with skeletal form for horsetail gone
and girlish eyes see fissure lies;
 
while marrow of moon tones tide and
leather legging rubs the ladder
leading star spine in curl around
to plankhouse on western face where
face southwestern tilts the shore,
through long night's let on gray back dawn
and sallow sun rasp in raven throat
and rose red hips hanging bearded, busted
bursting on white fingers of frost,
dry thorns dream in soft shoots of summer,
deep root remembers young wisdom when
wisdom had love for sister circle's ken;
 
and plankhouse still standing, still dazed,
still shaken, still the pliant cedar
split or woven through dreamhouse for
quests unbundled through unguard doors,
and raven first the mothers' son with
burdens crossed in winterworld love
for sacred season song
never unletting longing in heart,
nor smoothes the feathery soul, nor
stilling centuries' keep in-sown from
first light let on forest floor;
 
through river pass fall and hawk hunt snag
when talons tie the last life strand
and prey of eye mercy speaks
itself asleep
blessed then those having retreat
who life sleep,
while blessed more the daughter dream when
wide waking in daughter dream when
always waking to daughter dream then
and sons whose vision give the guide.


Terreson
Feb/26/2012, 12:40 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)



To Sacred Son
 
(Jimmy Tilton Pickett, 1857 - 1889)
 
In the boy bloom
Jimmy Pickett painted sky looms,
son of the soldier, darling to
his high born Haida mother who
in cedar bent boat bringing girl
to gentleman warrior where Bellingham bay
beached inside fertile shadowline of
hemlock pennant boughs, and meeting where
love mingled near Whatcom creek whose
water fast falls.
 
But Jimmy whose mother soon gone to walk
wetland death between island avenues,
with father too whose name then called
in fire and flame of Southern siege.
Too soon, too soon the berry boy alone,
bundled by the inland sea,
carried down to Shelton way and raised in
love's desire Jimmy inspired just as he
always moved to love whomever he graced
in young life's space.
 
Jimmy darling, gentle Jimmy,
the school boy soon leaving alone to draw,
to paint scenes he saw from inside out from
the stilling swan's eye stare,
while the great war raged and line upon
saw toothed line of settler came
and robber barons cut abstract the continent.
Jimmy Pickett who painted
while hemlock hills were cleared and
restive labor sold the sister soul,
Jimmy Pickett who painted.
 
Somewhere maybe are letter and sword,
one telling of sea voyage, of overplus swells,
of spar and mast and white sail.
It must be where Jimmy saw his
soul in upperwell, the salmon home where
his high born mother was gone.
And the sword, the tempered sun blade
Jimmy's father the general raised over the
long walk and deadly grade of Cemetary Ridge.
 
With sword then sent to son,
father's honor packed overland to first born,
but Jimmy dying young, coughing up
Portland's industrial blood and
the sacred family shamed when some
broker, some material slave who stole into
the breathless boy's rented rooms and
stole away carrying high blade.
 
And Jimmy Pickett who holds here still,
who lowers near in wet winter field,
the swan white boy, the sacred son
holding close, holding close.


Found the story of Pickett's Army time service in the PNW in a local history of Whatcom county. He would have married a Haida chieftans's daughter when it would have been politically expedient, an alliance of sorts formed. Jimmy, an early Pacific coast artist, intrigued me. Could make a great film script for a romance. And even a horror story. I imagine that whoever stole that ceremonial sword became cursed, along with his descendants, until Jimmy's grave was found and the sword returned to him.

Terreson
Feb/26/2012, 2:14 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)



Of the Wind's Drum

Barnacles thatch over white and
windy beaches blown whimsical,
chiton crawl beneath silver ceiling
of sky glades crowding out
and crowding out
slate of sun wandering loose and faint.
Colt's foot caught in crevice caught
in wood matted slope of shoulders,
then glistening ferns in downpour when
longings of western shore
tender to meet in water rise.
There, herons bed in overquilt loom
as feathers flutter in sexual plume
merging love where waters mingle
in fan touch of body sewn,
the Mystery Ride.

Clearly then coming far away drumming
in snares uncalled for, called for,
prayed for to meeting where meeting
in cedar spoken the incense bark,
the wooden bells when Say:

in world wave the ripples run
'round onion spun of time when
mighty life lines go slack and taut
stilling lovers listening as
layered we slide, then slip into
the very mood of she who shines
waterward on terns in flight,
scissor tails snip of close
intentions tonight
while she whispers in dark return.

And wanting her when wanting her,
wanting her so wanting her,
having wanted strong wind of her all again.


Terreson
Mar/3/2012, 7:50 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
vkp Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


These are incredible and unavoidable poems.
Mar/7/2012, 5:39 pm Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


Thank you for reading, vkp. Unavoidable. That could very well be the prize.

Tere
Mar/7/2012, 9:37 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)



To Crystal Girl

Growing girl in crystal cover
whose eyes of night fertile fins of light
and light whose haunches spread around
island mountain as spreading down
rifted rock when mountain shudders
in sudden surrender.
Light that lands running red and sleek
as pulling across, light blade across,
when coldly cuts and cleanly parts
unwary cheek until too late.

Moon is in house they say.

Closer truth is cautery of Beauty at birth
and sea girl spin in crystal cover
threading island serpentine,
rock without deceit,
red rock by iron intrusive, stark, sacred,
body above broiling brine of inland sea.

We must all be quivering, small histories
in-making, inmade, folding over, falling closer
unless insisting isolate,
pathetic, contra-stinging
intricate implicate of tissue infinite
carefully combing through content scented,
breaded, kneaded into, leaning where through
we see she who is daughter to spirits, who
lights downside path bringing us back
through secret cave climb where
finding before and behind in bedrock.
And freely there giving to growing girl in
crystal cover, partially caught in memory's frond,
who never stays captive or contained,
dispensing glitter of gleam and golden glimmer
in shining of mountain while warms the rock
to anchoring heart.

To westering girl then say,
in crystal cover then say,
of life or death when here's no matter
save only she shine when damp inside.


Terreson
Mar/9/2012, 9:12 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)




Of Earthbody
 
Wild rose and girlie goes where
burning in bloom the girlie goes where
up old rut of logger's road now
greening in thrill of cottony close.
To self-healing cloak in blue bell, in
everlast and nettle and maidenhair fern;
deep gash of ground and fallen the
fellows too of spirits first downed
in ways come back to stay.
 
And high in head uncalled the terror
when might of fir fathers cracks and pulls
in canyon caught on lathe to
higher bowl of wind;
or when hard in ear the hooves unseen
and heavy on mountain the
musk that hangs to forest flare
in plumes of rank encounter;
even slim hand of her who lightly holds
in deep pocket stillness the curve
of matter whose warp is woof
in streamtime through nature.
 
So certain here when walking in
sculpted spaces grasped in green
that better such thrill to
littling lives keeping clear, since,
for no danger, no purchase, no ecstasy,
no kiss to meet us in
our holy aching after her.
 
Still nearer now see how she haunts,
the sown girl gone to burning in bloom,
the gardening girl whose thighs enclose
in taproot suture of surrounding
cedar, fir, even hemlock's finial return.
Terraced of sides in dark soil redundant,
urgent, the door of darkness leading
around fishes of nest breathing in mound,
and mother of mountain within whose
belly comes letting down on
Lammas ladder up from under.
 
Plentiful folds of her soil who dares
the dawning dreamer when knowing herself,
whose body is fertile, sensible, and sure;
whose nature never stays requited
for long in rise of sides for who has learned
the gnarl, the grain, the garden in
season on season beneath her;
and where then dreamer goes through for
the afterlight of love behind
the gardening girl, the shuddering one,
she who has shudder forever.
 
And she who cannot help but pick
the pretty, the precious things,
who catches or pulls clerestory light,
leaning into, quivering wise,
while whole of forest floor swings open.
What once kept closed, the cover of
forest surround swings open,
and yellow flower on tendril of vine,
longing of flower peopling time
beneath the moon count and copper council;
just as scarce raven calls and
blue sky on hinge swings open.


Terreson
Mar/11/2012, 7:15 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


It seems the thread is not generating much interest. The chance is high these poems from the collection, Waypoints, must read perversely. They make no attempt to make themselves accessible. They work in a line rhythm I invented, this thing I call implicate rhythm. I got the notion from three sources. The first involves a theory the late physicist, David Bohm, came up with. He called it Implicate Reality. His attempt to explain the strange workings in physics at the quantum level. I took from him the notion that rhythmically a line can implicate the next, itself implicated by the line preceding. Second inciting source was Hopkins's Sprung Rhythm, a patterning I feel I may have taken as far as can be done and not lose sense and the bent for logical parsing. Third source was my immediate environs of that time: a deep forest environment in which perspective is layered, not set in contrast against some vanishing perspective just this side of the horizon. It seems to me that, viewed in evolutionary time, before the species, or some forebearer, stepped into that first savannah, it only knew a layered reality of deep forests in which danger was always close and closer, either above or below.

Explanations are tedious, mine no less so. Anyway, all that is really needed is for my reader to give me the lead here for the right orientation. Go implicative. Above all go metrical, comprehend with the ear, neither with the eye or especially with the brain.

Present poem involves the first time I saw the Green Man. He was real all right. Nor was I with doubt about the surrounding woman who pushes him on.


 

In Green Face

The eye of her who, seeing through,
sees into inadequate keepings of the Age,
whose innards are set on fire for
black earth dreams with wings to come
not effortless, emergent in time of
chill event as blood flows and twice
flowering dogwood shows and blister
of birch tips leaves in bronze when
vine maple brandishes burn of sun
and laurel leaches in the rain;
while here finding roundly how
more the memory, more the feeling field
for she who is belly centered, raised,
ready to let into little things still.

And coyote has mischief in the corn,
he whose discomfiture can cross
creek and bog, and close mortality
in forest fern for wood dance wilder on
beat of swollen storm to rhythm of
winter mood; even along nightshade’s
vine whose bitter root berry belies
the surrounding failure of nerve in
circle of settlement and home where
desire names large, but where
fear has name always larger.

Still the twin whose miracle calls
in twice told flowering time when
spidery thread silvers the web and
deep heron soars on high road and
sun has saddle in summit of
serpentine sisters who preen before
mossy house of massive cedar,
and he who pushes through for
love of her pushing him through;
his disk of face greenly seen where
parts the muscle of fleshy tree,
who senses himself suddenly soon
in sway of pillar and crescent complete,
parting there the memory of when
inside rhythm is gone to wood, when
love has come up for her whose
flower lays the first life out, whose
green fire lays the first love out.

Only then leaving low the valley pass
to climb into mountainside where
floor must fall in deep bottom of
furrow and spore of memory’s flesh,
where love of her leads into
butterfly breath of cold wing on
white sleeve that reaches through
green halls in everdream, in streams
of spring sewn placer gold and
wet rock glimmer in stay of winter;
and kestrel who is caught then by
glimmer on gray snag in
high stay of winter.

Terreson


Last edited by Terreson, Mar/31/2012, 4:02 pm
Mar/31/2012, 3:28 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)



In Storied Nights

How wood, how water,
how heart-still stays the tender of home,
the fire and thirst for love's perfection
in body touch in calm eye of storm.
Dances of November, dancers off the ocean,
the wild weather of womantide warming with
honey of fireweed heavy on forehead,
heavy in abandon when dancing trees
come nearest in on haunted grounds of home.

Far out from the poppy glow, the glare glow
of city beneath embossed light shield,
out from and into the innocent night
where death and life mix inside the milky bowl;
in no shame for where they are, where they've
come from, where their children bear
upon them upending passion for more.

In the palm, in the hand, in the spiraling,
the mother round mystic of the universe
where there is no stop to river and flow,
no check, no erratic rock to halt
the cosmic habit of deeptime's fractal fold.

Just so the forest calls in like stalls
the names of those who hear or who
cannot hear except in waking dreams.
In white femur bone of deer on fertile floor,
in windless breeze rising up sparse leaves,
or in tawny wildcat gone winter gray
who occupies midnight corners of the day,
looking in on things he sees out of
green eyes looking out from things inside.

Clarity when comes of perfect space can
have return, when spatial texture of fleshy
sculptures hold in high hand dreamer, thinker, or
perfect lover; there when Wild Beauty in Calm
leads on, leads on.
She who lives out through the human fracture.


Terreson
Mar/31/2012, 4:04 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
vkp Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


In Green Face

As with all your poems in this implicate rhythm that I have read, I find myself at the end of them with a thudding heart as if I have been running downhill – that inevitability is what I keep coming back to. The language is, incredibly, both compact and flowing – I don’t know how you do it. I am sorry and a little confused that they are not getting more reads here.

I react very viscerally to these poems – all of them. Partly because of the rhythm, partly the language, partly the subject matter. And, certainly, there is something else at work that I cannot possibly put words to because I don’t know what it is.

The Greenman poem – I can smell the laurel in the rain. I can see the “blister of birch tips,” I can see the “muscle of the fleshy tree” where he parts it – “greenly seen.”

As always I love your made up words. Everdream is one I hope I never forget.

Parts I want to say something about (though not sure I can):
“the surrounding failure of nerve in
circle of settlement and home where
desire names large, but where
fear has name always larger.”

This is just so true – about our circles of settlement. Isn’t it? It is one of the things that hems people in so tragically.

“and he who pushes through for
love of her pushing him through”

This speaks of a love we all want to have. The pushing through and the loving, as equals. Apologies if I am not commenting on a greater meaning here, but that is what I felt when I read it. The “ah yes.”


“love has come up for her whose
flower lays the first life out, whose
green fire lays the first love out.”

This is just plain beautiful and speaks to me.
Apr/1/2012, 10:12 am Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 
vkp Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


In Storied Nights

Breathtaking is a word so often used that I think no one really thinks about it any more. It means that the breath has been taken – so there is no breathing happening. That is what it is like when I read these poems, but none more so than In Storied Nights. I noticed the intake of breath when I was through reading it – and knowing I have read every stanza at least twice before moving on. So when I say this poem is breathtaking, do not take it as something perfunctory or cliched, but simply a word that means "I stopped breathing."

“How wood, how water,
how heart-still stays the tender of home,
the fire and thirst for love's perfection
in body touch in calm eye of storm.
Dances of November, dancers off the ocean,
the wild weather of womantide warming with
honey of fireweed heavy on forehead,
heavy in abandon when dancing trees
come nearest in on haunted grounds of home.”

This whole first part feels so familiar to me – maybe I don’t understand it as you meant it but for me it is about me, about any woman or tender of the home and what is most surprising is that these lines made me realize that the “grounds of home” always seem haunted to the one who must warm the hearth. The one who thirsts for love’s perfection. "Womantide" is another invention that has the feel of the familiar and fitting.

In the next part:

“Far out from the poppy glow, the glare glow
of city beneath embossed light shield,
out from and into the innocent night
where death and life mix inside the milky bowl;
in no shame for where they are, where they've
come from, where their children bear
upon them upending passion for more.”

there are excellent moments of words, like the “embossed light shield” of the city and the “innocent night/where death and life mix inside the milky bowl.” The last two lines make sense to me, a mother, but I won’t comment further.

In this section:
“In the palm, in the hand, in the spiraling,
the mother round mystic of the universe
where there is no stop to river and flow,
no check, no erratic rock to halt
the cosmic habit of deeptime's fractal fold.”

I am caught by (again, sorry) the feeling of inevitability, not just due to the rhythms here but also of the coursing urgency of the cosmic/mother forces. And I love the last line of the section so very much.

“Just so the forest calls in like stalls
the names of those who hear or who
cannot hear except in waking dreams.
In white femur bone of deer on fertile floor,
in windless breeze rising up sparse leaves,
or in tawny wildcat gone winter gray
who occupies midnight corners of the day,
looking in on things he sees out of
green eyes looking out from things inside.”

One question here, about the word “stalls” as a noun in the first line of the stanza. I looked to see if there was a meaning I did not know and can’t figure out the usage though love the internal rhyme (something I have a fondness for). Maybe you meant that sense of freefalling plunging, that maybe connects to the waking dream and the sense of imbalance that comes with that…. Not sure?

This whole part is so vividly the forest, the forest of the truly wild. I can see the femur bone, and could even if I had not myself found such moonlit treasures on forest floors. The tawny wildcat looking in and looking out from things inside is about solitude and silence and an inner knowing. To me, at least.

And finally:
“Clarity when comes of perfect space can
have return, when spatial texture of fleshy
sculptures hold in high hand dreamer, thinker, or
perfect lover; there when Wild Beauty in Calm
leads on, leads on.
She who lives out through the human fracture.”

The goddess makes her final appearance in the poem and even though I don’t know if I understand living out “through the human fracture” that phrase brings to mind so much. Humans break – our bones and skin break, our hearts break, we have breakthroughs, if we are lucky, and we bleed and cry from each fracture small or large. “She who lives out through the human fracture” is there with us when we feel, and when we heal.

--vkp
Apr/1/2012, 10:21 am Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


vkp, I need some time to take in what you say here. That is some close, textual reading. For that alone, and the time taken, I thank you.

About the word "stalls". I had in mind the kind of stalls one finds, say, in a horse stable, each off to the sides, running down and along the main space. That is what it feels like to me when standing in a deep forest and looking down the stalls or avenues of open spaces between close trees. I wanted to go for something evocative of the side spaces in a cathedral, as cathedrals and forests touch me in a similar way. I thought about the chancel space of a church. But I settled on stalls because, I guess because it is a common word, without pretension. Thanks again.

Tere
Apr/1/2012, 12:36 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


A note about the collection's title, Waypoints. Waypoints is a word found in GPS or Global Positioning Systems. Points plotted into a GPS machine using long/lat coordinates, then locked onto, I think, by any of as many as thirteen satellites. Once plotted, the hand held device serves as the guide.



In High Ravine

In dark matter sleep the big cat keeps,
the spirit of cougar circling wide the
mountainside when touches nose to tail,
until moist and rank and warm her breath in
high would ravine whose dream is stream
become cloud of billows bodying the night.

In night of year, of dark matter year
below close snow crop at tor of top,
and up under air that pushes past
the she cat whose eyes intrude, inturn
upon people of animal council
sporing whose flesh in fur she means return.

Big cat climb through dank fell of time
when earth wins swimming in her brain,
to molten melt of furious motion
drawing out and in on patternings to press,
when future of memory glazes again
created of present purpose to mend.

Or then when comes silver boy whose
indigo peace hears and holds and hears the
lion sleep, coming up on her, curling into her
until she speaks the spell of
dream worlds drawing in on the sun
and quartz stone stars and moons with dance;

keeping there, keeping graceful through
the gestate of gloom moving in on
unfathom to firsting frontier of
gravid mountain, of shifting plate, of
ocean resonate, the birthing field and
spherical smooth in widest swirl of journey.

And cougar comes down when ready.



Terreson
Apr/8/2012, 10:45 am Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Christine98 Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


Incantatory.

thanks,

Chris


Apr/8/2012, 12:53 pm Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


That's a description I can live with, Chris. Thanks.

Tere
Apr/8/2012, 2:18 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


So I'm still playing my word hoard game. Each word hoard thread carries with it poems from different collections. The one collection not represented is my most recent, Bottom City Blues, the whole of which is posted in our forum Ateliers.

Time to tie off #2 with a poem involving a historical narrative about a mining disaster. Implicate reality indeed.


Under History
(Blue Canyon mining disaster, Whatcom County)


Into Blue Canyon they came
with their title to claim on bed of coal,
what was raised in high folds of crust in
slate and iron ore and mica schist, and
coming too, since, timber stood in untouched stands
of cedar, dark fir, and hemlock radiance.

In from the bay by heavy gauge of rail,
through sinuous length along shore of lake,
and let into canyon crease whose banks
took township and workers in script and
company with claim cutting up through
mountain, water depth, skyline and valley pass.
Barons of industry and knights of labor,
the self-enobled, hence, dragon slayers,
or thanes of town hall whose
mob raised Beowulf must root out
the nature of wilderness Grendel
in his haunt of dark mother fastness.

Down the mouths miners carve their way with
soon the shadow yawns up canyon wrinkle,
and timber beasts too who finger the forests
for logging to insure vesting capital.
Steam Donkey in place, log boom riding in lake,
and soon the tow tug signing in low sky cover.
Then shore laid tracks and coal that comes that
carries as far as Frisco Bay; only,
too soon the miners who speak in shortest tones
of mountain that moves, they say she moves
as when rolling herself on fracted thighs.
How she shifts, swells, pinches against
flex of timber in the vaulting against
wet walls held from closing back.

For four years the good coal comes until
and there, but then, that day so quick,
so quiet with no notice when
dust-and-fire-damp disaster
no soul living out of dark mouth hears;
when force of gas at tunnel's breast
sends air packed fist through arteries to crush
the mules, the miners, the horses in its path.
Twenty-three men who then must die in
sudden stance in 1895.
Some with sweethearts, some without.
Some with family in hand and some without.
But not a one standing apart when
bridge whose span sheds light from night.

But always workers must take to labor's call,
and so coal's black flow for twenty more years,
or until veins pinch and coal crunches out.
With town taken down, rails pulled up,
bunkers left vagrant until torched by stray spark.
And company who keeps, who enlarges,
engorges on timber with way working east
through Park Pass, up north by Nooksack,
by south into Skagit, then southwest
for the tidal flats of inland sea.

Walking up the hump of Haner mountain,
coming from behind the canyon's blind side,
and walking within green halls pillared again
in cedar, fir, and hemlock; only,
not as once mighty.
Sword fern enlarged and the living mosaic
of forest floor deep in a hundred years of leaf.
The old growth stumps standing head high and they
nurse the huckleberry over reach of deer.

And voices to hear. Whose is never certain.
Miners maybe, slope runners, riggers,
the boomsticks, the bindle stiffs,
loaders, high climbers, and timber beasts.
Any one of whom punched the veins of coal,
or who let daylight into the swamps,
but no one to come for longer than was needed
to take in hand first findings.
None of whom stayed, but for miners twenty-three
whose voices maybe, or then, but no, but
sometimes it sounds like a girlie chorus,
a millenial song sliding through the
covered canyon climb of Haner's haunt.


(About the poem's nomenclature. Steam Donkey = a steam driven engine used to pull out of the forest downed old growth trees. Timber Beasts = loggers. Dust-and-fire explosion = coal dust ignites, the consussive pressure of which blows through the mine, not heard outside tunnel mouth, just seen as a lazy burp of dust. Slope runners = cable workers walking along cables attached to the felled timber and a dangerous job. Bindle stiffs = hobos so called because of the stick or staff slung over the shoulder, at the end of which was a cloth containing all their belongings. High Climbers = workers who spike-climb a tree, topping off its green with saw in hand. Daylight in the swamps = a waking call to loggers in their tent in the pre-dawn hour.)
 
Terreson

Apr/15/2012, 10:20 am Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
vkp Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


Response to In High Ravine.

quote:

quote:

In dark matter sleep the big cat keeps,
the spirit of cougar circling wide the
mountainside when touches nose to tail,
until moist and rank and warm her breath in
high would ravine whose dream is stream
become cloud of billows bodying the night.



This description of the big cat brings the breath and touch and look of her right to me.

quote:

In night of year, of dark matter year
below close snow crop at tor of top,
and up under air that pushes past
the she cat whose eyes intrude, inturn
upon people of animal council
sporing whose flesh in fur she means return.



I love “dark matter year” and can see the precipice, the snow, the cat taking possession.

quote:

Big cat climb through dank fell of time
when earth wins swimming in her brain,
to molten melt of furious motion
drawing out and in on patternings to press,
when future of memory glazes again
created of present purpose to mend.



“Dank fell of time/when earth wins swimming in her brain…” – I get the feeling of the cat as shaman, as spirit guide, as time traveler. And the lines “when future memory glazes again/ created of present purpose to mend” also invoke for me that sense of the cat spirit, healer and priestess of the earth.

quote:

Or then when comes silver boy whose
indigo peace hears and holds and hears the
lion sleep, coming up on her, curling into her
until she speaks the spell of
dream worlds drawing in on the sun
and quartz stone stars and moons with dance;

keeping there, keeping graceful through
the gestate of gloom moving in on
unfathom to firsting frontier of
gravid mountain, of shifting plate, of
ocean resonate, the birthing field and
spherical smooth in widest swirl of journey.

And cougar comes down when ready.



She is magical, and has everything to teach us. I love the whole last stanza, “firsting frontier of/gravid mountain…” and on from there. Yes, incantatory and I feel the surge of the earth and her wisdom, and the cat holding court – again, the priestess.

I just love this poem.
Apr/15/2012, 12:54 pm Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 
vkp Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


All I can say about Under History is that it is a tour de force. And also that the sense I get, in addition to an overwhelming feeling of the immediacy of each moment, each man and every crease and forest of the mountains, is that you were there. It is as if the entire event took place a second time, a ghost version that you were able to watch and immerse yourself in. Poetic channeling?

I enjoy the way you fold in the language of the mine, exquisite words that, even without your glossary, hypnotized me the way music does. Plus even without knowing what each word meant, I felt that I was immersed with the poet in the scene, as in a shared dream.

Wanted to ask about this:
quote:

Down the mouths miners carve their way with
soon the shadow yawns up canyon wrinkle



I feel as if I’m missing something – read this about 80 times and can’t get past the word “with” in these lines. Just not getting it.

And special note goes to:
quote:

the self-enobled, hence, dragon slayers,
or thanes of town hall whose
mob raised Beowulf must root out
the nature of wilderness Grendel
in his haunt of dark mother fastness



Excellent social commentary, very deft.

And another piece of familiar Terreson POV:
quote:

But always workers must take to labor's call



Nice.

Well, anyway. Big subject. Bravely taken on. Impressively carried off.
Apr/15/2012, 1:12 pm Link to this post Send Email to vkp   Send PM to vkp Blog
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


Thanks for registering a response, vkp. Of the poems executed in implicate rhythm, the cougar thing might be the best realized, at least rhythmically.

About the shaman thing, what I finally came to is that without the dangerous journey, maybe to some otherworld or underworld, there is no purchase. Nor is the return ever safely assured. It is what shamans and poets have in common, n'est ces pas?

Tere

Last edited by Terreson, Nov/29/2013, 1:48 pm
Apr/15/2012, 1:17 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Terreson Profile
Live feed
Blog
Friends
Miscellaneous info


Global user

Reply | Quote
Re: Terreson's word hoard (2)


Tonight I'm thinking "cold". Freezing rain, hail, sleet, and snow having come down to my south Louisiana home, brings back to mind the many blizzards I went through up in the north country. Bringing back to mind this one poem too.



In Canyon Cold

Coyote canyon in the cold
and water stoppered in stone,
while sounding over in nature's pass
there is to hear cosmic chatter
of starfield in cluster, of spiral arm,
even planets' patterning through
the fused trail of solar home;

or nearer in the high hearing of
choral voices in still night of
forest cold when girlie song has
crown and dance on fingertips to
firsting touch of instinct for
full lips in fire press on the Eve.

Low of cow comes out of white snow
up through shelter of older theme
on climb in bitter air when
no home has adequate hiding from
winter's cinch of saddle;
only underearth's reach to keep
in grounding the senses when cuts
the water in stone and moans the
labor in tree groan which creaks
on dry ice side of season.

In fullest round of what the
hearing sews through north nights
in late watch of white cold in
cover of sheer severity to
the deepest Beauty,
wherein straight tear is torn in
clear cloth of such a night when
slight songbird must sleep forever.


Funny how, bundled up and intent on keeping warm, we don't much think on songbirds who will freeze to death before the sun comes up again.

Tere
Jan/28/2014, 7:32 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 


Add a reply





You are not logged in (login)