hunt the stag in the Western wood, catch
the spider in his twilight hood. edge
my heels beneath the rotting leaves
and sink into the humus of the earth.
slide my belly along the roots, where the small
things crawl. where whole globes of life burst
and crack below the hiker’s deadskin boots.
there, (they say) if you wait, if you lay as still
as you can,
(after many years)
if you are very
you may hear
crackling in languages
long dead cradled swaying, in forms decaying: the word:
(close your eyes and see no more but listen)
reality (which is visual) crushes
truth (which is verbal), but truth
lives beneath us all.
The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. -Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It
People reduce what can only belong to the order of the word (which of necessity they are responsible) to the order of sight (where they reign as masters) -Jacques Ellul, The Humiliation fo the Word
So, besides these authors, is it lame to have a fragment also inspired by the music that I listen to in the kitchen? I must confess this is true.
First, Fiona Apple’s latest: astounding. Outloud “this is beautiful” astounding. In my opinion, Hot Knife is the one to love, and the rhythm in this fragment is likely a result of having over-listened to it.
Second, Lord Huron’s She Lit a Fire. This song belongs in the Northwoods between the birches.
Now that I listen to both of those songs separately, it seems weird that I could connect this fragment with both of them, but somehow it makes sense in my head.
These are the songs I cook to in the kitchen, so they’ve been coming out of my fingers lately into food and poetry.
I’m writing a poem every day. You can read why here.