Thursday, January 16, 2014
This my grandchild four years ago. She is holding out littlest dachshund. After my grandkids play with our dog, they have to take a bath and put on fresh clothing because my son has a severe dog allergy. So she makes the most of her chances. Not a bad plan for many things, really. I think you can make the necessary connections with tonight's poem by Brenda Hillman.
Partita for sparrows
We bury the sparrows of Europe
with found instruments,
their breast light as an ounce of tea
where we had seen them off the path,
their twin speeds of shyness and notched wings
near the pawnbroker's house by the canal,
in average neighborhoods of the resisters,
or in markets of princely delphinium and flax,
flying from awnings at unmarked rates
to fetch crumbs from our table half-spinning
back to clefs of grillwork on external stairs
we would descend much later;
in rainy neighborhoods of the resisters
where streets were taken one by one,
where consciousness is a stair or path,
we mark their domains with notched sticks
of hickory or chestnut or ash,
because our cities of princely pallor
should not have unmarked graves.
Lyric work, flight or arch, death bridge
to which patterned being is parallel:
they came as if from the margins
of a painting, their average hearts half-spinning
our little hourglass up on the screen.
Brenda Hillman in Lyric Postmodernisms; an Antholoogy of Contemporary Innovative Poetics, edited by Reginald Shepherd, Counterpath Press, Denver, 2008, page 111.
at 12:08 AM