Transform triangulations? Could be that nightmare, or just walking through a gallery of sorts…
Hard to keep up with, but it invites & holds…
Doug
On Nov 19, 2014, at 6:54 AM, Lawrence Upton <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> Bright triangle turning into a sharp dog's head;
>
> not a Border Collie's, but something like.
>
> It's sky blue with a fluffy white cloud
>
> as a break between canopying trees;
>
> and that becomes a furry canine skull.
>
> A seal comes up through triangular gaps
>
> in ice. Someone passes a macaroon.
>
> Traffic goes by outside. A fat-necked man
>
> keeps eyes shut tightly and continues talking
>
> to his wife though she is not listening.
>
> They close the curtains too early. It's day.
>
> It's still really very light. Brown shadows
>
> dart about the fourth wall of the room. Two hands
>
> beside guns on a low coffee table.
>
> Later, when it's dark, you go back into
>
> that room again, to the sudden darkness. Somehow
>
> there's light there as if there were inner shine
>
> in your head but you cannot see how much
>
> it's heavily smudged charcoal. The afternoon,
>
> then birdsong; melting butter loud-sizzling
>
> in a deep-bottomed pan. Sunlight on a loch;
>
> fishing rods upright in fishermen's hands; the hills
>
> opposite beneath the sun, detail in glare.
>
> Geometric shapes; industrial units
>
> above the prefabricated new estate;
>
> incandescence of the setting star; white light
>
> blinking in the video camera; notation
>
> of seconds being recorded with action;
>
> jagged pan across nineteen thirties' apartments;
>
> most of the curtains pulled back, but no sign
>
> of activity, yet a sense that all those rooms
>
> are inhabited. The Christmas tree from Norway,
>
> fifteen degrees from upright, being tugged;
>
> an expectant murmuring in a mad crowd;
>
> an oily blueness in the stream as it
>
> goes down, like petrol poured from a can. You know,
>
> dear, says his wife, she spends money
>
> compulsively. Everything she'll buy's sensible
>
> in itself, but she never wants anything
>
> of it. She spends money from need of work.
>
> Paste blue fractures of paint superimposed
>
> on the surface, breaking the illusion of pictures.
>
> A little ochre-coloured pendant of rock
>
> he does not recognise. She picks it up
>
> and looks at it and says chalcedony;
>
> but that's said just for its sonic effect
>
> and's not a realistic suggestion.
>
> Song of the reel upon the rod. Opens
>
> his eyes. Still going terribly fast. Always
>
> been scared of motorbikes. Am I on one?
>
> Fingers are getting tired; he can't hold on
>
> much longer. Horse with white down the middle
>
> of its nose jogs out of the black and white
>
> photograph crumpled up beside the gas fire.
>
Douglas Barbour
[log in to unmask]
Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuation 2 (UofAPress).
Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
that we are only
as we find out we are
Charles Olson
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