Rain lacquered tennis court.
While the eye wanders across a particular space in a particular weather
(Dolores Park, tennis courts after a night of rain) I find it nice - as in
"blessed" - to have the consciousness surprised by a verb transformed into
an adjective: ³lacquered.² The verb made appropriate by the play of light -
early morning, barely breaking through the white and gray clouds - on to the
consecutive thin puddles across the red and green painted courts. The
adjectivised verb crystallizes and sustains a moment in the consciousness.
Itıs a phenomenon that is, at least, the essential foundation of a good poem
- the way particular words give the poem a sense of accuracy with a
memorable surface, a tensile tough combination of space, motion, texture and
depth: the vague white and gray cloud reflections shifting across the water
over the submerged white, rectangular grid between the red and green
portions of each court.
We can usually immediately sense when a poet is forcing such connections -
the verbs and/or adjectives appear artificially hyped and crafted, as if a
Thesaurus was at the makerıs elbow. Which is not to say that accurate verbs
do not come from a learned place - they do, most often from ages of reading,
looking, and listening, closely. Itıs the good poet, the one with that sixth
sense to know when the accurate verb comes (or bursts) into play, the
word,or combination of words that emerge to elevate and crystallize a
particular moment/space in time. Itıs a gift that no one can invent. At that
point, itıs all about the art of receiving and putting the given word into
the right place on the line; a sense of rhythm, meter, an on-target sense of
articulation. That, also, essential part: "the making", what many will call
³craft²:
Rain lacquered tennis court.
Thatıs enough. Like a truncated haiku - or a photograph without an extended
caption - I will leave it there.
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