Patricia Pruitt
CORK
For J.D.
…and the door opens…
Over the late brown hills
Pale grey clouds
Streaked blue cover
the revamping of the bridge—constant
diagonal over the river—the little view
Its witness—the window –witness
---------------
Witness: a condition of with-ness,
Presence , and wit—broad sense,
Awareness. Not the “wit” of clever.
The wit of perception. Even a seeing
Through the “eyes’ or “condition
Of another…
---------------
The hills rounded under
Brown leaves fallen
Through air and light
Wherein gentle rest will
Naturally, effortlessly, even properly
Circle into solstice…
---------------
Writing is a variety
Of writhing, visible (not only) in
the letters' curvatures in their snakelike crossing
on the blank cold page but visible in its absence
as long, torturous time between one line
and the next…
When you announced the cessation
Of your inquiry you joined
The gallery of those who cease,
Those who cut off the other from a place
Where faith held her…
True,
Too much was asked in the way
we ask too much or too little of ourselves...
---------------
Not to explain. We know and we don’t
Know simultaneously. All things at once
Come in yet evade. In that way
The hills were green, then gold and red, before
they rested into gentle brown decay.
Not an elegy. A grieving for joy it is…
And sadness that it will fall down around
others like leaves on the rounded shoulders
of the hills…
Your regard cannot hold it all though
You cross barbed fences, speak with the tongues
Of the ancients and the ones not yet here
And all the words in all the vocabularies,
Spoken and unspoken still…
---------------
Form is often pleasing to create
But form is not more than a system
Of order in a vast universe
Of barely perceived orders…
It is not a big idea or big enough idea.
---------------
Cork dries out with use
And crumbles away into cork dust
Such a transformation takes time
In that sense we are corklike.
---------------
The texture of the paper, the drag
Of its surface under fingertips
Calls forth these lines. They promise
To deliver the hand to the secret
Language to be traced between
the pen tip and the paper
that the paper has suggested
is ready to lay down
its meaning. These first words, lines…
So much more to desire…
---------------
Desire is witness of itself
and its objects/others. To that degree
it is exclusive, discriminating this one
from another one. And decisive.
Perhaps even uncompromising, even
Unpromising of any but its own satisfaction.
Every book is an object of desire.
Every color of the rose,
Every beauty
Every morning’s sunrise, the first star, the wish wished…
---------------
In these cold temperatures
A fly seeks survival in a house
Flies and buzzes around seeking
an out…a window rattles in the chill breeze
The fly travels the closed cold glass…
A morning when the cold page wins…
---------------
On a day the call comes-not an emergency- but
A must call back sort of call…
Behind this call are countless others,
circumstances of concern requiring swift response.
Years of such calls.
Years of response.
---------------
Late November fog cancels
The far hills but leaves the leafless
Tree across from the window
She adds a lamp, a pink glass lamp
To ease the gloom.
It will not go any further
Will not any further
---------------
So ends the afternoon quietly in fog
The tree reduced to three boughs—lost
The others to the dark , gone from the window
Into night…
---------------
Again
Again
Ongoing preparations
And foiled plans
Plus letting some things go,
as if left by the wayside What abides
and what counts as lasting
or lost Any more or any less
Not least is the sunlight…
---------------
Seeking the diamond moment,
The star in the clear winter sky
(what of flux, mutability, transforming)
The inner shifts and understanding, of love
No easy rhymes, no guarantees…
---------------
II
Suite for Joe
-----------------
You teach us pronouns
No longer matter--
Each and every equals all
Though not without difficulty
All efforts to achieve security
Give no protection, only temporary ease
Late morning the vehicle carrying
The P.A. system travels the streets
Repeats a test consisting of …4,5,6…
Over and over.
There is no further information.
The day is therefore quiet
without further information
---------------
Maybe Joe you made a count –
down on your final night, waiting for
your children to arrive , to
tell them it was over and
what to do…
Then your eyes looked up
into the first light in the window
and you took the final breath…
You went quiet,
The way you always walked
Your doctor called you
“The brave stoic” for whom
Everything was clear
---------------
One spring in Portugal seeing cork trees
Gnarled with age yet imbued with a presence such
That “venerable’ seems called for
Up close one feels respect and is
Quite pleased to do so.
---------------
Austere morning light creates distance in powder gray and blue
The lamps still lit on the bridge
Do not penetrate this distance
---------------
Can we say beauty is
Complete?
---------------
Out of the fog
A sun will come
Our little efforts will suffice
awhile
We know the river’s there
and the canal, so too the channel
and the banks eroded here and there
This “is-ness” is somewhat secure
and will suffice awhile
Thinking on more than this, can we
go forward?
What is the way? Can any of us say?
The garage below is still for sale--
The roof will need repair.
Three tall trees grown up there
Turn golden in the fall.
For J.D.
…and the door opens…
Over the late brown hills
Pale grey clouds
Streaked blue cover
the revamping of the bridge—constant
diagonal over the river—the little view
Its witness—the window –witness
---------------
Witness: a condition of with-ness,
Presence , and wit—broad sense,
Awareness. Not the “wit” of clever.
The wit of perception. Even a seeing
Through the “eyes’ or “condition
Of another…
---------------
The hills rounded under
Brown leaves fallen
Through air and light
Wherein gentle rest will
Naturally, effortlessly, even properly
Circle into solstice…
---------------
Writing is a variety
Of writhing, visible (not only) in
the letters' curvatures in their snakelike crossing
on the blank cold page but visible in its absence
as long, torturous time between one line
and the next…
When you announced the cessation
Of your inquiry you joined
The gallery of those who cease,
Those who cut off the other from a place
Where faith held her…
True,
Too much was asked in the way
we ask too much or too little of ourselves...
---------------
Not to explain. We know and we don’t
Know simultaneously. All things at once
Come in yet evade. In that way
The hills were green, then gold and red, before
they rested into gentle brown decay.
Not an elegy. A grieving for joy it is…
And sadness that it will fall down around
others like leaves on the rounded shoulders
of the hills…
Your regard cannot hold it all though
You cross barbed fences, speak with the tongues
Of the ancients and the ones not yet here
And all the words in all the vocabularies,
Spoken and unspoken still…
---------------
Form is often pleasing to create
But form is not more than a system
Of order in a vast universe
Of barely perceived orders…
It is not a big idea or big enough idea.
---------------
Cork dries out with use
And crumbles away into cork dust
Such a transformation takes time
In that sense we are corklike.
---------------
The texture of the paper, the drag
Of its surface under fingertips
Calls forth these lines. They promise
To deliver the hand to the secret
Language to be traced between
the pen tip and the paper
that the paper has suggested
is ready to lay down
its meaning. These first words, lines…
So much more to desire…
---------------
Desire is witness of itself
and its objects/others. To that degree
it is exclusive, discriminating this one
from another one. And decisive.
Perhaps even uncompromising, even
Unpromising of any but its own satisfaction.
Every book is an object of desire.
Every color of the rose,
Every beauty
Every morning’s sunrise, the first star, the wish wished…
---------------
In these cold temperatures
A fly seeks survival in a house
Flies and buzzes around seeking
an out…a window rattles in the chill breeze
The fly travels the closed cold glass…
A morning when the cold page wins…
---------------
On a day the call comes-not an emergency- but
A must call back sort of call…
Behind this call are countless others,
circumstances of concern requiring swift response.
Years of such calls.
Years of response.
---------------
Late November fog cancels
The far hills but leaves the leafless
Tree across from the window
She adds a lamp, a pink glass lamp
To ease the gloom.
It will not go any further
Will not any further
---------------
So ends the afternoon quietly in fog
The tree reduced to three boughs—lost
The others to the dark , gone from the window
Into night…
---------------
Again
Again
Ongoing preparations
And foiled plans
Plus letting some things go,
as if left by the wayside What abides
and what counts as lasting
or lost Any more or any less
Not least is the sunlight…
---------------
Seeking the diamond moment,
The star in the clear winter sky
(what of flux, mutability, transforming)
The inner shifts and understanding, of love
No easy rhymes, no guarantees…
---------------
II
Suite for Joe
-----------------
You teach us pronouns
No longer matter--
Each and every equals all
Though not without difficulty
All efforts to achieve security
Give no protection, only temporary ease
Late morning the vehicle carrying
The P.A. system travels the streets
Repeats a test consisting of …4,5,6…
Over and over.
There is no further information.
The day is therefore quiet
without further information
---------------
Maybe Joe you made a count –
down on your final night, waiting for
your children to arrive , to
tell them it was over and
what to do…
Then your eyes looked up
into the first light in the window
and you took the final breath…
You went quiet,
The way you always walked
Your doctor called you
“The brave stoic” for whom
Everything was clear
---------------
One spring in Portugal seeing cork trees
Gnarled with age yet imbued with a presence such
That “venerable’ seems called for
Up close one feels respect and is
Quite pleased to do so.
---------------
Austere morning light creates distance in powder gray and blue
The lamps still lit on the bridge
Do not penetrate this distance
---------------
Can we say beauty is
Complete?
---------------
Out of the fog
A sun will come
Our little efforts will suffice
awhile
We know the river’s there
and the canal, so too the channel
and the banks eroded here and there
This “is-ness” is somewhat secure
and will suffice awhile
Thinking on more than this, can we
go forward?
What is the way? Can any of us say?
The garage below is still for sale--
The roof will need repair.
Three tall trees grown up there
Turn golden in the fall.