Viewing Memory

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227 / viewing memory instead as a swollen creek— layers of mud, silt covering the end of days, final moments before night—
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Absence versus presence.

There are moments when an absence allows its presence to be known. It declares itself as a missing note on a scale. The interval between the ticks of the metronome. The lack of a footfall on the stairwell.

A moment once existed before the first note, when his eyesight hovered over the keys of the clavichord sizing up the intensity of it all.

The shadows of his fingertips would first strike the keys and then the weight of intention. The weight of possibilities; the instinctual notes in his head,

His house missing the weight of his daily inspiration building a bridge between concept and actuality—

Senyru • Climbing into Bed

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whiskey on his breath, disheveled, he climbs up back stairs, holding shoes and coat—

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226 / climbing into bed, smells of nicotine stain his undershirt, his hair— why do I now remember the nights of his rough embrace?—
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Burn to Memory

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225/ burn to memory the child clinging for comfort, the rising motion of water birds, the falling of day: recall these often —
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Having slight difficulties finding material for the nightly exercises. In the past I would use the lack of motivation itself for a poem, but over time I have collected many similar-voiced writings. Wanting to find something new to consider— perhaps the specifics of today, this afternoon: walking with Brendan across the neighborhood; egrets ascending every few moments, and small water birds startling off the edges of the canal. Brendan seemed preoccupied, thinking on his own matters, impatient to get to the playground.

A Bright Opal

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224/ he reshapes the moon tonight into a large-mouthed carp, a tangible prize to catch and hold closely to the chest— a bright opal —
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Another moment with Brendan and the moon. Half asleep while being rocked he murmurs that he wants Daddy to hold the moon— and that he wants Papi to hold the moon likewise— his expression insistent and troubled that we will forget by tomorrow our new duties— for a half hour he persists in re-visioning the satellite as an object of possession, a source of responsibility and care—

The Room's Iconography

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223/ after the ninth hour, the room’s iconography begins murmuring, the mattress creaks with the weight of their angelic voices—•

Afterwards. Reviewing the experience of closing out a poem. For me, this is the most difficult part of the writing cycle. I want to feel the influences of classical music, with the dramatic certain finality. When writing, I look for that sense of flourish, that staccato pulse of instruments permitting a clear close of text. It remains difficult explaining the intonation, the rhythmic certainty itself. Part instinct, part strategy, part winding down. Even now, with a minor journal-entry, I am seeking a slow exit from the stage allowing the curtains to fold back in place,

—but the certainty is lacking. Perhaps this moment is a forecast for the inevitable end that is to come in the future. A rambling hesitation without purpose. I'll end up one of the ghostly figures wandering the hallways, uncertain about what was meant to be accomplished in life. Mumbling under my breath with cold drafts from the windows about purpose and obscure poetry.

Slightly Inebriated

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222/ too tired to think, even the aging night leans against this dazed house, slightly inebriated— stumbling and singing loudly —
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Due to the stitches along my upper back, I can only sleep in odd positions— my night reading as a result limits itself to scant phrases from a seated position from the edge of the mattress. However, within the last twenty-four hours I manage to lie on my back without feeling pin pricks in the flesh; blood does not pool on the sheets when I wake in the morning. Perhaps tomorrow I can return to my list of books for reading this year—

Wounded Present Tense

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221/ three stitches knotted tightly across shoulder blades, constant reminders of the past self I once was and the wounded present tense —
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One of those ritual, habitual days—minor details: after church service we went to get coffee, drove home. I organized files, setup a quick informal essay, and graded papers. Off and on Brendan and I spent time together, outside in an alternating system of wintery chill, then warm sun. The sky shone with a crisp blue and a lack of clouds.

Folding Back

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220/ folding back morning newsprint— he becomes aware of a fragment of kale lodging between molars; annoyed he sucks on his teeth —
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Feeling apathy toward today’s tanka— it sits in front of me in an awkward pose, a child with an ugly expression on its face, intentionally distorting his once beautiful features into disagreement, out-right rebellion. Lately my whole attitude of writing falls into negation— that downward spiraling effect into self-criticism.

It comes down to this: the mundane nature of the poem irritates me. The scene succeeds in portraying a boring reality of the every-day-existence, producing an irritation, like the filament of kale itself. Yet, I find myself annoyed at the persona’s annoyance. An overwhelming ambivalence. When closing a poem I want to feel the closure as an experience. As taking off a winter coat— creating a feeling of carrying through of an action. Completion. Here, however …
•So I shaved last night— rather, this afternoon, time rests in an awkward presence in my head today, events fall out of order like a dropped deck of cards— but my point, my point is I feel colder, more aware of my countenance, my jawline— no longer exists the leathery resistance of whiskers. A new sense of buoyancy falls within every step.

Nothing Motions

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219/ a book lies unread on the counter of my desk— constant reminder— outside the skies threaten rain, yet nothing motions forward —
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For a week I refused to shave, allowing an autumnal frost to spread across my face— grey whiskers rising out from unknown depths. In a sense they exist as proof of a mild transformation, a shift into middle age, an unplanned journey—

The stitches in my back prod the skin sometimes. They’ll remain intact, embedded for another week, prickly counter points sticking out of the collar of my work shirts. I rub across the wound absent mindedly; same sensations as brushing over a clutch of thistles. Unexpected needles. Thorns arguing with flesh.

A Saintly Vernacular

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218/ not wanting to sleep, I wait for a clarity of words to descend— a saintly vernacular to slip within my shell ears—
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Bach’s birthday, 328 years ago (born in 1685)— is this the bridge for latest poem? —the connection?

Rather bridges as the bridge. Plus Bach.

Begin with him a the clavichord (or harpsichord) then spiral, unwind, cross over.

Hands/fingers hovering over keys.

Then transitioning to Morgan, a girl just over nineteen. New York city motel.

Creek bridge— wood planks / trunk of tree
Railroad ties— railroad grid bridge

a transcription of Bach’s Concerto in D Minor
transcription: in music this is the act of arranging a composition into a new medium, new form.

Piano bridge— clavichord, harpsichord > translated/transcribed into verse.

Pauses/hesitations/regrets—

Bach built the bridge for the concerto / fugue based on key of D minor. In classical music, a bridge commonly appears in fugues. Used to transition between two themes, smoothing out a shift between ideas.