Marsden Hartley once wrote of the challenges of inhabiting New Mexico in a letter to Alfred Stieglitz. "This country is very beautiful and also difficult... It is not a country of light on things. It is a country of things in light, therefore it is a country of form, with a new presentation of light as problem." New Mexico remains a beautiful, difficult land.
Showing posts with label National Poetry Month. Show all posts
Showing posts with label National Poetry Month. Show all posts
My poems screech like waterbirds diving for stale bread on the shore.
Forget seagulls. Phoenix feathers rise from crumbling towers, endless ash,
a campfire smoldering with sacred tobacco. You didn't believe in new age
paraphernalia, but you sat on a wobbly stump that September and threw
dried flakes into the fire, smoke blowing quilt patterns on your face.
Can I stitch to you a sonnet, suffering the page's blank space to force
your lines out? My spreader of numbers, keeper of trees, oh enigma.
I can write the sound of seasons: crackle of leaf-fires, winter's silent
glare. Black bridges divide the river ice in two. A wet train moans.
But words scour the loneliness of eyes. And I should quit definitions;
denotation is shallow. Rhyme won't sound, meter won't count, and black
ink is sentimental. Take up the sky and split it. Witness ice-white supernovas,
a mass implosion cutting through frozen whorls of galaxy glass. Melt it.
Drink it down. Crack the star like a walnut, but please, leave the core to me.
Revival
We are not born
complicated.
Our needs are few:
mothers, small blankets,
milk. And then what happens?
If you ever go to a treatment center--
of any kind-- you will learn
many useless things.
They will complicate matters
with suggestions, and advice
on ways to simplify your life.
They will tell you to approach
your enemy and tell them
thank you for making me
so angry, and I love you.
The Old Testament guy
standing on the corner
with his signs and verses,
he knows more than
I do of gentle hands
and spent grace.
He believes in salvation,
and for a dollar
he will touch his greasy
hair and say thank you
for making God so
available, and don't
you know He loves you.
***
Ardith L. Brown currently resides in Flannery O'Connor's hometown of Milledgeville, GA, but she doesn't forget New Mexico. When she is not wrangling family or grading papers, she writes poems. She has a B.A. in Poetry from UNM, an M.A. in Literature from the University of Houston, and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Georgia College & State University. She misses green chile, mountains, and liberals.
by Samantha Anne Carrillo Things in Light, the self-proclaimed nuevomexicano arts & culture blog with the mostest, is psyched to feature Brian Hendrickson's work in our 2015 poetry series. Already an award-winning poet, Hendrickson is currently engaged in postdoctoral studies in rhetoric and writing at UNM. He is passionate about the role that writing plays in activism and social movements. His debut book of poems, Of Small Children / And Other Poor Swimmers, was recently published by Swimming with Elephants. Today on TIL, we proudly present one poem from Of Small Children and three as-yet-unpublished works.
Because
Because you can’t just shoot
every last thieving politician in the back of the head;
Because it’s illegal, sure—but
also because they’d probably just grow new heads;
Because when you told her you
sometimes wished you had the balls to do this, some small bird
escaped from the delicate cage of her voice, and she stopped asking
you if all the dark hair in your poems belonged to her;
Because regardless, a busload of
vacationing mechanics disappears in Acapulco;
Because regardless, a Jewish
settler in a Subaru runs down two Palestinian boys for throwing
stones;
Because regardless, Hutu rebels
gang-rape nearly two hundred women and children over a four-day
period in the village of Luvungi—among the victims, three baby
boys;
Because sometimes you just
know—you know, and she knows, and they know—you all know you
know;
Because in the words of your
father, not a one of you may any longer be excused from the goddamn
table until you’ve finished all your goddamn vegetables;
Because she no longer calls you,
yet you still have something to say;
Your poems like your wishes still
carry her dark hair in one hand, and in the other, a gun.
Calling
All Psychopomps
The
reapers of tongues are harvesting all
The
daylight you ever tasted—you whose words
You
fished from brighter bodies than the sun—
Who
have lowered your crane bags into rivers
Dark
as a stranger’s history only to hoist them
Brimming
with stars—who know the precise
Glint
of each vowel your fathers gutted,
Each
consonantal ripple in your mothers’
Twirling
dresses. Once. Watch out. The engineers
Of
tongues are rerouting the blood your children
Read
to know what’s hidden below the labels
Stitched
across their skins. Soon yours
Will
be the story the scribes of tongues
Forget
to anthologize. Soon you will not
Even
recognize the wings on your own heels.
Hence
of you there are those who will be drawn
Out
ever onto rickety protrusions of rust
And
splintered wood sagging low where cattails
Give
to current, which is nothing if not what you were
Taught
to share with otherwise intransitive
Phases
of the moon. Only will you then hone subtler
Demonstrations
reminding, Check your pockets
For
what you have perhaps forgotten you
Have
that shines. When thereafter the butchers of tongues
Come
glinting for your crane bag, you’ll best know
How
to gesture. Gesture in every direction at once.
If
the Missing Appear in Dreams: A Partial Response to Theodore Roethke
I
hear a sound at night. I wake up.
I
look through the window and there is nothing.
– “Chechnya's
long wait for the disappeared
to
return,” BBC News, 16 July 2011
If
the missing appear in dreams they are not dead,
Chechens
say. Oil-dipped, one
wick-end sleeps,
So
feeds the fire burning in its head.
The
day is a cadaver. Go to bed
Where
life is more than your imagination leaks.
When
the missing flood our dreams they are not dead.
Forget
the lowly worm. Its curse. No messages embed
The
corkscrew tunnel that it creeps.
You’ll
find no fire burning in that head.
Whereas
we wake, then bring ourselves to say what must be said:
The
secret told us by the company sleep keeps:
Because
the missing speak our dreams they are not dead.
Last
night my friends all came for dinner, bringing bread
That,
broken, cried out like baby birds. The cheeps
Still
glow like dying embers in my head.
This
wick is braded from our wishes, intended
To
reach the basin of a common lamp full and deep
Enough
to feed forever fires in our heads.
To
gather the missing to this dream. To raise the dead.
Essay
—After
Hayden Carruth
.
. . all these poems over the years
have
been necessary – suitable and correct.
From
cruelty, injustice, already so
Many
unflinching poems.
Jeffers’
purse seine, Jarrell’s
Ball-turret
gunner, Baraka’s black
Fists
black daggers black teeth.
Forché’s
colonel. Rich’s wreck.
Rocewicz’s
old polish woman with
Her
pitiful goat forever casting us
Terrible
for doubting, or worse:
Forgetting,
occupied as we are
Wearing
masks: adult, cynical, though
Nevertheless
whittled with words honed on
The
whetstone of an adolescent urge
Refusing
suffering, unreason—someone
Else’s;
our own—punk songs
To
which we can no longer sing
Along
with abandon. All swimming
Begins
with the same flailing and gurgling.
How
I am guilty of such brash,
Incognizant
anthems. Pound proclaimed
Most
important poetry written after thirty—
The
adult mind attuned to irresolution.
Then
there is this: the books beginning to
Vanish
from their shelves again, this time
In
Tucson, where the superintendent
Prefers
stories a particular kind
Of
uncomplicated, and suddenly giving
The
lie requires we offer our younger selves—
That
of us still impertinent to complex
Ethical
nuance—this truce: one archetypal
Image
to embody: expelled student
Shrouded
in the smoke of stolen
Fire
and graffiti, head and hands forever
Empty
of approved lesson plans,
Backpack
perennially full of the knife-
Edged
line breaks of every poem
Worth
banning—Loki, Ananse,
Kitsune,
Coyote, Kokopelli
Castrated
no longer: god
And
goddess at once, shape-shifter,
Ageless,
unpredictable, endlessly
Dangerous—trickster,
trickster
Whom
we all once were,
Whom
we all have been
Summoned
upon to remember
How
to summon once again.
****
Brian Hendrickson’s first book of poems, Of Small Children / And Other Poor Swimmers, is available now through Swimming with Elephants Publications. Brian's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in a range of publications, including Indiana Review, North Carolina Literary Review, and New York Quarterly. For his poetry Brian has been nominated for a 2011 Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net award, recognized as a 2013 finalist for Smartish Pace’s Erskine J. Poetry Prize, and awarded a 2013 New Mexico-Arizona Book Award for appearing in Beatlick Press’ La Llarona anthology. Since earning an MFA in Creative Writing and Literary Arts from the University of Alaska Anchorage, Brian has taught and tutored writing at colleges and correctional facilities in Alaska, Florida, North Carolina, and now New Mexico, where he is currently pursuing a PhD in Rhetoric and Writing. Brian’s scholarship focuses on the role of writing in social movements and student activism.
Things in Light is a nuevomexicano arts & culture blog with substantial superpowers, including the ability to locate wildly talented writers within the aether and present them to our readers; our proprietary, quasi-mystical transmission devices use electricity to light upon, move, store and display thoughts originating from within human minds.
The poetry being unveiled in this year's series reps the prodigious talent that exists here in New Mexico. We begin with a poem by musician and writer Sasha Perrin, who now calls Burque home. With roots in a windswept land called Montana, Perrin considers relationships below.
The life expectancy and overall concept of pets
As an owner of a turtle or a parrot, I would have to let
something go.
Chickens and ducks and osprey live in indifferent periphery
Of what we let ourselves and each other become,
Tame to something, devoted to something more.
Comedy and shed tears
And who remembers what of any of it
But in absence of children
And those parrots and turtles who will outlive me
And laying in bed between two graceful beings
I wonder:
At what point in my life do I snap into a car wreck,
Or not get to say goodbye to everyone I love?
I don’t suppose any of us gets all of these opportunities,
But I know for certain that even in the smallest moment
One treasure keeps us afloat,
It’s personal.
And I have no idea what that looks like to anyone else
But without the luxury of waking up tomorrow,
What are we supposed to do…stand up against each other and
wait until we die?
There’s no possible way we will ever agree with each other.
And it’s against the law to kill each other.By the time I’m your age,
You will either be 34 years older than me, or you’ll be
dead.
This is the concept of owning a dog or a cat.
I am a turtle.
I think of you often, but more often I avail myself to the
spirit
In my life.
My dog.
My dogs in the past.
Seeing how death moves, either slowly over years or
overnight.
Today, and in many recent yesterdays,
I’m wondering how we can go on like this:
Emotional, worried.
When are the Cubs going to win the world series?
And
Why?
Submissions for this year's Things in Light poetry series are welcome. Please send them to xicotenga.huitzilopochtli@gmail.com.
There are only a couple of hours left in this year's version of April. We are confident that this iteration will infinitely reprise itself, though our spectral sources say that by 2157, the term "April" will have been replaced by an unpronounceable word that alludes to the majestic heat and windy cruelty of springtime in the northern hemisphere.
In accordance with such glimpses into future astronomical and geophysical possibilities, we are going to wrap up our second annual poetry series with the previously published sonnets of Things in Light co-founder and editor Rudolfo Carrillo, who reminds us that Tlön is closer to becoming than we can possibly imagine.
Sonnet for Amalthea
This ain’t a story built from good wood,
he said, while assembling imaginary
transdimensional super materials
into a fluid as heavy as Jupiter’s third
moon. Besides, the others might
gather together an army of squirrels
or squares. Both are considered good eating,
you know. There are alternatives to dusk
and did I tell you — he continued
in a voice reminiscent of the translucent
utterance ascribed to Zeppo when
confronted by the complexity of it
all — the way ashes cling to water is
just another word for the sky.
Sonnet Comprising Today’s Temporal Analysis
I found out my town was made from dust and corn, street people
and low flying jet aeroplanes. Sometimes an old turbo job swooped into view.
Inside the restaurants, people spoke about how bright the sun had been, whether
or not there would be enough rain to paint the streets with, like it was a holiday or
something like that. Everyone I knew drove a car that spit out smoke while loudly
proclaiming the continued ascendance of heavy metal. The pictures in the local
paper alluded to twisted mulberry branches. If you fashioned a plutonium-laden
symbol from those elemental moments, someone up in heaven would surely
smile at the heaviness that propelled the resulting storm clouds upward into what
could only be described as a fantastically elaborate void. After recording these
latest observations, I drank from the river with the solemnity of Coronado’s
thirsty horde, gamboling fiercely upon the shore, disguised as last month’s
flying insect ruler, conjuring articles of faith from yellow leaves. Sodium
lamps buzzed wantonly from electrified steel poles; it was never quiet here.
Sonnet Sixteen: Saltwater and Smoke
The past, or rather the world created
by expired occurrences and dangling
actions remains out of reach. The
inchoate symphony in everyman’s left eye
is a globe of indeterminate composition
and volume. Arms cannot grasp such
roundly articulate implications. Its girth
is unitary and expansive in directions
previously dismissed as outlandish,
as not befitting the shabby wizardry
defined on a Cartesian plane and
primarily used as a basis for moving
wind-driven, wooden caverns filled with men
and their produce across the vasty deep.
Sonnet After Kilgore Trout
The flattened portion of the universe you are currently viewing
is best displayed through soporific filter number seventy-nine point
sixty-three. You know the one I mean, don’t you, gentle reader?
It resides in a golden box, composing itself from ashes and modern
construction materials like citizenship and looming mortality.
A new tower built of bony fingers with missing legs upon its painted lips.
That form gives a rumbling grandeur to what was poured into it.
Infinity and nothingness make for subtle yet utilitarian hinges.
There is even a subroutine designed to increase the vividness and
the saturation of spring. Subsequently, the summer sun burns hours
into crevices available for entertainment or observation in a manner
similar to the power of photographs prior to their silvery obsolescence.
I have never been more hopeful about America. Smoke a cigarette
and masturbate. Ask your robotic assistant about installation options, today.
Sonnet for Flesh
Now he is mechanical.
and there ain't any music
on the a.m. dial, so you can
forget all about x-rock eighty
motherfucker, reconciling yourself instead to
murmurs, utterances and the urge to catch
one's breath, trip trip tripingly, or whatever
else floats through the aether to be
transformed by magnetism.
Continuing his research on robots
because there are plenty of flash
videos that depict men made
from tin, he will limit and adjust
his range of motion, accordingly.
Quotations From a Revolution
Thirty years must pass said I,
knowing anyway springtime
could not be properly reckoned
in the rough calculation of
transit. You may visit when
it is convenient. Ah, but remember
to flee spasmodically with the night,
just when the trees flutter and
the birds erupt into their seasonal
songs of temporal location. Until
then, all monuments should be
built from locomotion; a reminder
of what we did to make an
escape from this new rain.
Sonnet for A Passing Vessel
Vast portions of the heavenly void
go unused because performing magic on
carpeted hallways has limitations. Things
are getting lost, and better yet, being revealed;
much like serpentine flashes in the trees,
almost like the time they found a poisonous spider
behind the water cooler. My dreams do not refer to literature.
They do not echo my father’s Quixotic asides.
Or describe everything as backwards. Inside that vessel,
Wave forms do not have emotional content and you
can experience purple in all of its glory, although
the soundtrack is forgettable; composed of bright pixels
that are really grains of rice that are really
bones colored like the contour of a cloud.
***
Rudolfo Carrillo is an artist and writer that lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He studied art at the University of New Mexico. He has been a welder and projectionist, but now works as a college instructor. His work has been published in all sorts of places, but mostly on the web and in newspapers. Interact with his site, Infinity Report, when you have some time.
The penultimate installment of TiL's 2013 Poetry Series features the work of poet, translator and essayist Murat Nemet-Nejat, who was among writers who recently read and celebrated 21 years of Word Thursdays readings at Poet's House, NYC. Born in Istanbul, Turkey, Nemet-Nejat has resided in the United States since 1959. He sent us this sublime work from his home in New Jersey. It is an adaptation/translation of a Turkish poem written by Küçük İskender.
sacrifice
I bought you a lamp shade today
just the tip of my mind baltimore
or an open doored green Chevrolet,
registered a masterpiece
sacrifice is the tape you play
waywards towards the shore
all around us angelhoods, in blood
cleaning
at each other’s throats, hanging on
each others’ calls
I wrote you a letter today,
more than trivialities,
talking of roses
the anxiety of turning into a rose
can’t you remember I bitched,
wept
left and right cigarettes lit, burnt
out
each drag starts with “my love, “
no more, fragments fragments
of paper soul
rocks of cocaine bliss
a winter piece came into me
with your drip of blood within
we went
sacrificing today
my wrist still sweet and flowing
a temporal drip
a love chat not talked about
bodies abused
feisty squirrels meeting on a limb
the lips, the lips trembling
the glowworm which hits nothing and
disappears
the wonder phantasma which hit my mind
and disappeared
our love
pieces of soul and love which hit and
disappeared
the hand of the teen cutesy god which
appears and moves on my white and wet forehead
in the middle of my life the first time
I came, parisreaming of dying
oh, readjust slowly my wet forelock,
I bought you a lamp shade today, wrote
you a letter,
to you, I say... a lamp shade and
letter
for you I died today no one else
That green Chevy, open doors
in your cassette sacrifice by
Elton, Elton John
on my palm a pink alliance ring
fragments, of fog and bliss which hit
and disappear,
yours and mine collected we anted
into time
and you and I thinking we are a mere
thing
fretting on the fact
like a feather, approaching you
like a feather touching and startling
you
then
then ebbing away…
k. Iskender
translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat
***
Murat Nemet-Nejat is the author of The Peripheral Space of Photography (Green Integer Press, 2004), the memoir/essay “Istanbul Noir” in Istanbul: Metamorphoses In an Imperial City (Talisman Press, 2011), and the poem "The Spiritual Life of Replicants" (Talisman House, 2011). Poet, translator and essayist, Nemet-Nejat also edited and largely translated Eda: An Anthology of Contemporary Turkish Poetry (Talisman House, 2004), translated Orhan Veli, I, Orhan Veli (Hanging Loose Press, 1989), Ece Ayhan, A Blind Cat Black and Orthodoxies (Sun and Moon Press, 1997), and Seyhan Erözçelik, Rosestrikes and Coffee Grinds (Talisman House, 2010). Ece Ayhan’s A Blind Cat Black and Orthodoxies will be republished by Green Integer Press in 2013. His translation of Birhan Keskin’s poem "Y’ol" will be published by The Imprint Press in 2013.
As April transits into May, we're excited and happy to publish the work of Mjamj Snjirc. We asked Snjirc—a native of Amsterdam residing in a small Hungarian village near the Croatian border—to contribute because her prolific output and multimedia approach to poetics is formidable and intensely beautiful. The video realization of this poem is embedded following the text.
The Love Who Is My Love Is My Love/1
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
talking silenty. Her silence is
gorgeous when she whispers her
whishes to me.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
lying next to me when I lie. And isn't
she lying next to me she is
lying in me. With her silent drum she
arouses me. Virtuoso rhythms
defying any analysis. Move me move me
move me move me.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
resting next to me when she rests. And
isn't she resting next to me
she is resting in me. The Love who is
my Love is a gorgeous warrior.
Her weapons are dedication and noble
courage.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. She
swims and swims and
swims and swims. Through the water
through the miracle. Her birth
will happen under a lucky star. The
same star that shone on the bed
in which I was bred.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. She
is unborn she is alive she
is dead.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love
possesses the words. Within the words
she possesses she possesses
the time. Within the time she possesses
she possesses the space.
Within the space she possesses she
possesses the roads. Within the
roads she possesses she possesses the
elements.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is a
holiday dish. A holiday dish served up
in 1181 bowls. Each bowl
fired in last night's flames.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is a
fairy tale. A fairytale gathered from 7
times 7 mouths. It begins in
the winter that never ends. And ends in
the summer that never
begins.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
singing with the wind when she sings.
The Love who is my Love is
crying in me when she cries. She sings
and sings and sings and
sings. She cries she cries she cries
she cries.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. She
is unborn she is alive she
is dead.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
dreaming next to me when I dream. And
isn't she dreaming next
to me she is dreaming in me. She
introduces me to all of her
acquaintances. A procession of a
billion heads passes through my
house. I greet and greet and greet and
greet. And the best wishes
expressed in dizzying sounds. Heal me
heal me heal me heal me.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love
lends me her glance. Her glance has a
reach of 360 degrees sharp.
Everything that comes within her range,
shows itself for a
gorgeously silent moment. We relish we
relish we relish we relish.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love
possesses the flowers. Within the
flowers she possesses she
possesses the big smell. If her big
smell is heavy. She temps me
to drift and doze. If her big smell is
light. She animates my
wanderlust.
The Love who is my Love is my Love.
From the riches she offers, I
conscientiously pick my presents for
her. She lets me, because me
too she grants the joy of giving. And
because she knows the power
of the gesture of goodwill.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
walking next to me when I walk. And
isn't she walking next to me
she is walking in me. My step adjusts
itself to hers. Her step adjusts
itself to mine. She walks I walk she
walks I walk. Through the
distance through the light. Without the
slightest effort we arrive
where we should. A billiom laughing
faces welcome us. A table is set
with 1184 steaming bowls. As we join
the orchestra strikes up. A
mixture of rumba samba chachacha and
chardas. The sun dances
with the moon – the other planets
dance with the comets. We feast
we feast we feast we feast.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
words she possesses are
too long if they must be too long. Too
short if they must be too
short. The time she possesses is too
early if it must be too early.
Too late if it must be too late. The
space she possesses is too wide if
it must be too wide. Too narrow if it
must be too narrow. The roads
she possesses are too slow if they must
be too slow. Too fast if they
must be too fast. The elements she
possesses are too good if they
must be too good. Too bad if they must
be too bad.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
too big if she wishes to be too big.
The Love who is my Love is too
small if she wishes to be too small.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. Of
my Love I rest assured for
the remainder of my life. With my Love
I rest assured for the
remainder of my life. Through my Love I
rest assured for the
remainder of my life. In the morning I
drink a cup of tea. In the
afternoon I smoke a pipe. In the
evening I exchange stories in a
whisper. One time in the company of
some old Chinese. Another
time in the company of some old Finns.
Also sometimes in the
company of some old Indians. Then again
in the company of some
old Egyptians. This is how I pay my
dues – informal but strict.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. She
flies and flies and flies
and flies. Covered with snow from
northpole to southpole the earth
stretches gorgeously silent under her.
The never ending winter has
begun.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. Lie
my Love lie in me. Rest
my Love rest in me. Cry my Love cry in
me. Dream my Love dream
in me. Walk my Love walk in me. Glow my
Love glow in me.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love
blows bubbles like a champion. A
billion transparant universes
trance through my house. Sparkling
jewels defying any reforging.
Transport me transport me transport me
transport me. The Love
who is my Love is generous if she
wishes to be generous. The Love
who is my Love is tight if she wishes
to be tight.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love
possesses the forms. Within the forms
she possesses she possesses
the colors. Within the colors she
possesses she possesses the light.
Within the light she possesses she
possesses the miracle.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. She
is dead she is alive she is
unborn.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
forms she possesses are
complex if they must be complex. Simple
if they must be simple.
The forms she possesses are always
gorgeous. The colors she
possesses are intense if they must be
intense. Pale if they must be
pale. The colors she possesses are
always gorgeous. The light she
possesses is white if it must be white.
Black if it must be black The
light she possesses is always gorgeous.
The miracle she possesses
is nothing if it must be nothing.
Everything if it must be everything.
The miracle she possesses is always
gorgeous.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. She
is dead she is alive she is
unborn.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. My
Love and I – we are
pagans. She is a pagan I am a pagan.
Untamed we walk the earth.
She walks I walk she walks I walk. We
go through mountains – The
Himalayas The Kilimanjaro The Andes. We
go through deserts – The
Sahara The Gobi The Nullarbor. We go by
rivers – The Wolga The
Amazone The Mississippi. We go through
cities – Singapore Madras
Dakar. We arrive we stay we leave. My
Love and I – we are pagans.
We pay are dues – informal but
strict.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
sitting next to me when I sit. And
isn't she sitting next to me she is
sitting in me. Her flesh is firm. Firm
as the month of december. With
her firm flesh she keeps me firm. Her
breathing is calm. Calm as the
month of june. With her calm breathing
she keeps me calm. Her
glance is clear. Her glance has a range
of 366 days sharp. Every-
thing that comes within her range.
Blooms, gets fructified, ripens.
With her clear glance she keeps me
clear. The Love who is my Love
is my guide. I am firm – full of
eager patience. The Love who is my
Love is my guide. I am calm – full of
the violence of nature. The
Love who is my Love is my guide. I am
clear – full of dumb
happiness.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
talking silenty. Her silence is
gorgeous when she whispers her
whishes to me.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love
possesses the music. Too warm if it
must be too warm. Too cold if it
must be too cold. Within the music she
possesses she possesses the
stones. Too warm if they must be too
warm. Too cold if they must
be too cold. Within the stones she
possesses she possesses the
energies. Too warm if they must be too
warm. Too cold if they must
be too cold.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love is
warm if she wishes to be warm. The Love
who is my Love is cold if
she wishes to be cold.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. The
Love who is my Love
possesses the fruit. The Love who is my
Love is a piece of fruit. With
her sweet juices she caresses the tip
of my tongue. With her bitter
juices she tickles the back of my
tongue. A billion drunken animals
prepare themselves for tomorrow. A holy
day on the calender of
eternity. The clouds are busy
decorating the sky. The thunder storm
finished the design for the light show.
On each of the 12 tables there
is room for 1190 bowls. Each bowl piled
with juicy delicacies.
By now the procession can arrive any
moment. When tomorrow is
over one by one each member will
continue on. And they will meet
up again at the joint destination.
Nobody will get lost. For everybody
gets dealt a compass whose needle is
pointed invariably towards
love.
As soon as Sagittarius comes in sight
Jascha strikes up. A mixture of
earth fire water and air. The moon
dances with the sun – the
comets dance with the other planets.
The Love who is my Love is a
gorgeous dancer. The Love who is my
Love asks me for a dance.
She dances I dance she dances I dance.
The beat of my heart
adjusts itself to hers. The beat of her
heart adjusts itself to mine.
My Love and I – we are tireless. We
dance and dance and dance and
dance.
The Love who is my Love is my Love. HOW
FARTHER SHE REACHES
American Modernist painter Marsden Hartley once wrote of the challenges of inhabiting New Mexico in a letter to Georgia O'Keeffe's husband, photographer and promoter Alfred Stieglitz. Hartley wrote: "This country is very beautiful and also difficult... It is not a country of light on things. It is a country of things in light, therefore it is a country of form, with a new presentation of light as problem." While time has passed since Hartley penned these words, New Mexico remains a beautiful, difficult land.
TIL Publisher Samantha Anne Carrillo
TIL Editor Rudolfo Carrillo
Things in Light Editor in Chief Rudolfo Carrillo currently serves as music & news editor for Weekly Alibi. Carrillo earned his bachelor's degree in Fine Arts from the University of New Mexico. His work has appeared in a wide range of publications, including daily newspapers, literary magazines and alt-weeklies. His personal weblog, Infinity Report, was recognized as one of the best blogs in New Mexico in 2007. At the latest Southwest Popular/American Culture Association conference, Carrillo chaired the experimental writing workshop.
