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Terreson Profile
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Ena


Now here is a poem thoroughly forgotten about. In our You Are What You Read thread in the Field Notes forum I mention reading back through old material during the two weeks when I was without a PC. I mention reading through a novel written in or around '91. The novel is called In The Cedar Weave. It is about a woman, Ena, who has inherited an old cottage on the shore of Puget Sound in Wa, and who is living alone, without a man, for maybe the first time ever. By novel's end she will have fallen in love with a man, an archeologist from Columbia who, having returned there on business, gets kidnapped by rebels. The novel ends with Ena having decided to leave her home on the Sound and search him out. His name is David. But before meeting David, mostly living alone, Ena makes many, many discoveries. Mostly about herself but also about her environs, its natural orderings. For me Ena's portrait is that of a Natural Beauty, something that in art, is called Venus Naturalis. Or Vulgar Venus as opposed to the Celestial Venus.

I took two years making notes and an outline in preparation. Then one day I sat down at my typewriter and the story came. Half way through the novel, having saved up money, I quit my bartending job and devoted my days writing out the story. Slowly and deliberately. One page at a time. Some days maybe as many as five. It occurred to me I wasn't operating in units of chapters. Rather they were like panels, art panels on a wall leading down the hall. Some panels were as many as ten pages. Some as few as five. One maybe as many as thirty pages. When the story was done, first writing at least, I realized it had needed thirteen months. A little surprised I also realized that a lunar year is thirteen months. Sometime while writing, both Ena and I discovered she is a witch, an instinctive witch, something she had inherited from the same grandmother from whom she had inherited the cottage on Puget Sound. It seemed appropriate to me, maybe just coincidental, that the novel was made in a lunar year. Here is the poem written about making the novel. Untitled, it prefaces the story.


She's come as if painted
painted panels raised
while wearing the rounding white
the thirteen opening robes
even learning on the chatter
carrying up over
from the down under mothers,
and each wood word picture
turning in warm on one before
while hanging her heart out next
in the lifeness fold.
Or has it been like blue frescoes
in some time dark hall
down the wet walls
and leaning us nearer inside
the labyrinthine body hive,
leaning on the footway on
until coming face to adoration's face
in the secret light place
with the sovereign, the shuddering
the High Likeness lady's
lovely high soul?
But maybe it's rather been like
the folding out pages
of a picture Japanese
a book once seen
with the brush painted butterflies
unfurling, unfolding, unflying by.

And being otherelse than a man what am
she'd show herself differently,
while certainly if lesselse
than a man what am
and she showing herself out notatall.

(completely forgot about the poem. all but forgot about the novel. ya'll reckon its time to hire an amanuensis?)

Tere
Oct/10/2010, 2:44 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 
Christine98 Profile
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Re: Ena


Tere,

I noticed how the poem unfurls line by line, one image merging into the next and a kind of sustained energy or unbroken rhythm running through:

even leaning on the chatter
carrying up over
from the down under mothers,
and each wood word picture
turning in warm on one before...

Everything about this reinforces the sense of unfolding panels. Almost makes me dizzy.

Chris
Oct/11/2010, 8:32 am Link to this post Send Email to Christine98   Send PM to Christine98
 
Terreson Profile
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Re: Ena


Thanks for commenting, Chris. I get what you mean, can see it too. It is a fun poem that way.

Tere
Oct/11/2010, 1:44 pm Link to this post Send Email to Terreson   Send PM to Terreson
 


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