in a poem weather’s never weather, there’s something other:
behind that cloud, transitory; in back of sunshine, egg.
if it’s raining, it’s not raining; if it’s bright it’s harsh
if the valley’s brimmed with fog, well maybe…
if it’s snowing and snow is due and a figure is approaching
down a road at dusk, think again.
if there’s a hawk, it’s not a hawk
(but there’s another hawk in hiding).
when you read a line there’s another line:
the line on the page and the one becoming.
if you were in an MRI machine reading a poem
you’d see the garden bloom with peonies.
when there’s a season, there’s another season already:
autumn portends winter, winter spring in a tumble never done.
when someone says heart or moon it’s something else they’re saying:
heart isn’t valvular, moon’s not planetary
and when I write you, it’s not you
it’s me and the body extending
and of course, when you reach the end of a poem
that’s the beginning.
Image: Sylvia Sassen c/- Flickr. A bit of silliness inspired by Jane Hirschfield talking about poetry:
“What begins in the body, in the life […] leaves that interior existence when it sets forth into language. Yet the language […] is an attempt to awaken inside […] another what was yours.”
Also linked up to Dverse Open Link Night – where Grace is hosting and celebrates the work of Nobel Laureate American poet Louise Glück.