INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Gerald Clark
Martin Camps &
M. J. Iuppa
is an independent International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2012
Fred Wolven
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MERELY THAT Lazing at lunch, torpid with quiche and Beaujolais, I saw those brambles by the shed, how they rise In an accidental arch to frame, say, some lissome vision passing under, her tiny flowers carried in concise bouquet. I drained my glass to quell the ache as other eyes, less prone to bleary reveries, scanned keen for opportune configuration. Eyes that see A flyway when there's one to see, then swing the hungry void at dusk, twirl down that lethal space, traversing back again, again in ruthless iteration, throwing silver threads across the moon... But brambles grow only as they can, to merely be as they can be; they rise to no presumed design, no more arch than flyway in their plain reality. We understand so easily how words can grace the world with metaphor, incline the eye to what it sees; but don't overlays of mute instinctive purpose do the same? If that's a sort of poetry, there are more kinds of poets than we credit. Most lack words to conjure visions or disturb our sleep, But they bring such exacting fit to time and place, like the perfect word in the perfect space, that their mere Persevering, closely seen, finds an ancient endless interlacing, the intricate eternal dance that, merely, makes the world proceed. Byron Matthews, near Albuquerque, New Mexico |