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Saturday, May 17, 2014


“You are the sky. Everything else – it’s just the weather.”
Pema Chödrön


No Narrative                    A. E. Watkins
A paradise forecloses once an aperture—no narrative but trees
are saying birds between them. Sun through green leaves like green

stained glass—a bright room, the birds spoken in through
a window—translating between two

weathers: the birds as captives or portents.
The forest and feathered currents

coursing its chambers; what to think
of open doors, the emptied sanctuary Your trilling

lingers the rafters now branching several scenes.
No narrative but birds on wires humming between

poles—lining the street—front doors and absence cut in each
tree to let wires through: an entrance by which

a blood-thick night can pass.
The birds with beaks pulled to breasts, their small claws clasp

a wilderness humming sun-lit rooms and flitting. 


  from  Ice Cream  by Robert Creeley

Where we are there must
be something to place us.
Look around. What do you see
that you can recognize.


Anxious about the weather,
folding the door shut, unwrapping
the floor covering and rolling it
forward at the door.


So that’s what you do:
ask the same questions
and keep answering.


Was that right.

Language has no weather, and therefore is not, strictly speaking, an environment.
~from Jennifer Moxley's 'Fragments of a Broken Poetics'

APPREHENDING THE WEATHER IN KANSAS                 Jon Kelly Yenser
For Becca

I'd forgotten that
the front edge of a front
seems its opposite

a long in-drawing
a sough up high in the elms
in the maples a sigh.

Just before the first drops
icy and big as dimes change
things for the better

the wind comes up.
You never mistake the storm
for what came before.

I grew up agape
and breathless in this weather
and the pulse it kept.


Ghost                 Mark Irwin

Now your name's just a guest here, one that cancels
all hellos. Fleshless
you come & go through the mansion

of air. How
will I address you, small
weather? Sometimes your name's

a dress like an iron
bell the years
swing shadows from

longer that home. Can you hear
that word peal? I'm going
there now,

carrying the windows
from inside
all the vowels. 


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