And then the day was the colour of resistance, a blue or yellow, perhaps, or could green entail such logic? The pull nonetheless is towards an ocean of understanding, tho that might be a lake in the middle of a car on the highway going away. Where would people go, if Worcester wasn’t home? They would go to the blue of the sun on a generous morning, or to the green of the sky, when the birds flake out, or to the yellow of the sea, when it is time. This is so obvious, required, a practice, a home, yet the standards of such revival—fitting resistance itself with new document forms—favours a town. That town can be ours. Worcester, where Charles Olson saw the sea.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
Comments
I love the poems of yours that I've read online. Would you like to trade books? Let me know.
tongblissATsbcglobalDOTnet
Best --
Joseph Massey