The Project Gutenberg eBook ofEyeshine

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofEyeshineThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.*** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook. Details Below. ****** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. ***Title: EyeshineAuthor: Paul Cameron BrownRelease date: November 19, 2009 [eBook #30504]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sorour Imani*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EYESHINE ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

*** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook. Details Below. ****** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. ***

*** This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook. Details Below. ***

*** Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. ***

Title: EyeshineAuthor: Paul Cameron BrownRelease date: November 19, 2009 [eBook #30504]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sorour Imani

Title: Eyeshine

Author: Paul Cameron Brown

Release date: November 19, 2009 [eBook #30504]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Sorour Imani

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EYESHINE ***

EYESHINEByPaul Cameron Brown

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTSCanadian Author and Bookman, Grain, Androgyne (USA), Maker, Quarry, Or,Otherthan Review, Jewish Dialog, Tightrope, Alpha,Nebula, Horizon, Boreal, Stuffed Crocodile, Northern Journey,Origins, Mamashee, Wee Giant, Unchained Heart (USA),Poetic License.Published with the assistance of Ontario Arts Council

Canadian Author and Bookman, Grain, Androgyne (USA), Maker, Quarry, Or,Otherthan Review, Jewish Dialog, Tightrope, Alpha,Nebula, Horizon, Boreal, Stuffed Crocodile, Northern Journey,Origins, Mamashee, Wee Giant, Unchained Heart (USA),Poetic License.Published with the assistance of Ontario Arts Council

7Stillness8Hewanorra9The Intruder10Dinner at Eight12The Bay of Cortes13Oracabessa14Prospectus15Gladiators16Ocean Sea19Cold Passion21For Tom Thomson23The Woodsman24East of Oswego25Presence of Mind27Fishing Nets28Rites of Intensification29Jagged Wire30Eyeshine32Sweet Water33Primavera34The Encounter35Magpie Tongues36Plums and Vine37Perhaps38Approaching Thirty (Lauds and Matins)39Passageways42Kindling43The Glowworm44Between Two Stones45The Waters of the Bay Lie Beneath47Passing48Kith and Kin50To Sit Arrayed51Silver Coins52Sentry53The Potato Eaters54The Assignation (Pons Asinorum)55Haunted Child56Triangular Trade57Casting Rocks58Brushstroke59Man60Landing Schemes61Mirage62Stone Guide63Red Illusions Under Glass

STILLNESSInvitingly, the sea shines her stars,captive flames within an impatient heartas darkness loads the pleasent isles with coarseness,slow sparks rise over a roaring fire.And strolling beaches near dawnwhen the sand fleas & crabs are seen to flee,one catches upon the imperfect stillnessa song of one - wind with seadrawning nearinward, such stars turnas bonds at lastworked free.[7]

Invitingly, the sea shines her stars,captive flames within an impatient heartas darkness loads the pleasent isles with coarseness,slow sparks rise over a roaring fire.And strolling beaches near dawnwhen the sand fleas & crabs are seen to flee,one catches upon the imperfect stillnessa song of one - wind with seadrawning nearinward, such stars turnas bonds at lastworked free.[7]

HEWANORRAThe moon, at most a shudder or two away.The sky, bivouaked and cloudy, is within twin sloops of a bay.The lagoon opens, spars with the greater oceanby island hopping, green azure blue, asthe wind steps before an open sea.The great ridge of the mountainlies obscured by rain;jasmine, frequent colourand plantationswith cocoa, soursop, and cinnamon.Arawaks, Pelee,Carriacoi, Anegada,Josephine of the Creoles,let Admiral Rodney atone Lord Byng.And my Patois beauty,breath laced Oleander sweet -take the hemming from your dressthen come sit down with me.[8]

The moon, at most a shudder or two away.The sky, bivouaked and cloudy, is within twin sloops of a bay.The lagoon opens, spars with the greater oceanby island hopping, green azure blue, asthe wind steps before an open sea.The great ridge of the mountainlies obscured by rain;jasmine, frequent colourand plantationswith cocoa, soursop, and cinnamon.Arawaks, Pelee,Carriacoi, Anegada,Josephine of the Creoles,let Admiral Rodney atone Lord Byng.And my Patois beauty,breath laced Oleander sweet -take the hemming from your dressthen come sit down with me.[8]

THE INTRUDERThe colouring of spacious flowers rove delicious to the eye.The road above the harbour fickle, carousing in its tendencyto pull too gray by sky enamelled water.The tropical foliage, still and languorous, to my touch.Each particle of sunlight dangling as if hoisted froma perfumed ledge.Newly mown grass in streaks, browns serpent-like acrossthe path.Low erogenous puffs of dust are swathed by passing feet.Near by, bushes wear the foliage of streaked mud as a mantlemight cottonwool at Christmas.Life in such climes is built on connotations rather than pureinnuendoes of purpose.The southern sky, the heat above the sea allude to this.This triumphant trilogy embossed upon volcanic slate, morecrumpled paper than firm land.Gravesides lying in twilight nakedness.The scion moon in her damaged vestry between acolyteclouds.Hamlets resembling clotted blood, nicks across an earmarkedhorizon.The poor, wavering to transfixed in their hotly owned sun;the one commodity they rightly possess.The outpouring sea, loosing herself in bridged inlets,countless points that nudge the land in acknowledgedsupremacy.The irrelevance of time, inbreeding of pale intruder.[9]

The colouring of spacious flowers rove delicious to the eye.The road above the harbour fickle, carousing in its tendencyto pull too gray by sky enamelled water.The tropical foliage, still and languorous, to my touch.Each particle of sunlight dangling as if hoisted froma perfumed ledge.Newly mown grass in streaks, browns serpent-like acrossthe path.Low erogenous puffs of dust are swathed by passing feet.Near by, bushes wear the foliage of streaked mud as a mantlemight cottonwool at Christmas.Life in such climes is built on connotations rather than pureinnuendoes of purpose.The southern sky, the heat above the sea allude to this.This triumphant trilogy embossed upon volcanic slate, morecrumpled paper than firm land.Gravesides lying in twilight nakedness.The scion moon in her damaged vestry between acolyteclouds.Hamlets resembling clotted blood, nicks across an earmarkedhorizon.The poor, wavering to transfixed in their hotly owned sun;the one commodity they rightly possess.The outpouring sea, loosing herself in bridged inlets,countless points that nudge the land in acknowledgedsupremacy.The irrelevance of time, inbreeding of pale intruder.[9]

DINNER AT EIGHTAt times, I thought of swizzling white rumin the tropics (not as a vocation),dropping into the clubfor a round of tennisbefore dinner at eightor a quiet set of dartsbefore retiring.I had grown accustomed to my new routine(at least vicariously).In the best Somerset Maugham traditionI would dress for dinner,decline to be patronizing,avoid the potential slurif crisp linen did not appearregularly on my bed or table.I still found time to stopfor breakfast coffee,take a moment from regimento fondle fresh, wet flowers,look over the balcony at theblueness of the bay.The metaphysical qualities that comeinto play erode such morning somnambulations.The heat depreciated any vaingloriousattempts to lionize the native Caribbean rum.Tennis and darts become ho-hum,more of a task than a pleasant diversion.The little yellowed board seemedto symbolize not convivial cordialitybut crabbed provincialism.The tie & collar were intolerableagainst the saline tropic night andseemed rigid in a place and timethe locals could not possibly share.In short, such things celebrated my apartness.Linen rarely, if ever, appearedand to resort to complaintsresulted in only furtheringthe distance between one and his hosts.Even the coffee tasted bitter and seemedunsuited to the needs of an interloper.Neither was fruit juice the promised manna.And one can take only so much nostalgic flower warbling.The hummingbirds and oleander came to growas commonplace and exhausting as the rain.I began ruminating thoughts back to my previous existence.Surprised at my illogical shift in allegiances,I began stealing thoughts more and more surreptitiouslyabout the naturalness of working a full day,donning the apparel of a civilized man,dropping the white man's burden.Disgust filled me with my former Rousseauian yearnings.With trepidation, one's dreamscan erect barriers more effectivethan the most ill-sponsored illusions.[10]

At times, I thought of swizzling white rumin the tropics (not as a vocation),dropping into the clubfor a round of tennisbefore dinner at eightor a quiet set of dartsbefore retiring.I had grown accustomed to my new routine(at least vicariously).In the best Somerset Maugham traditionI would dress for dinner,decline to be patronizing,avoid the potential slurif crisp linen did not appearregularly on my bed or table.I still found time to stopfor breakfast coffee,take a moment from regimento fondle fresh, wet flowers,look over the balcony at theblueness of the bay.The metaphysical qualities that comeinto play erode such morning somnambulations.The heat depreciated any vaingloriousattempts to lionize the native Caribbean rum.Tennis and darts become ho-hum,more of a task than a pleasant diversion.The little yellowed board seemedto symbolize not convivial cordialitybut crabbed provincialism.The tie & collar were intolerableagainst the saline tropic night andseemed rigid in a place and timethe locals could not possibly share.In short, such things celebrated my apartness.Linen rarely, if ever, appearedand to resort to complaintsresulted in only furtheringthe distance between one and his hosts.Even the coffee tasted bitter and seemedunsuited to the needs of an interloper.Neither was fruit juice the promised manna.And one can take only so much nostalgic flower warbling.The hummingbirds and oleander came to growas commonplace and exhausting as the rain.I began ruminating thoughts back to my previous existence.Surprised at my illogical shift in allegiances,I began stealing thoughts more and more surreptitiouslyabout the naturalness of working a full day,donning the apparel of a civilized man,dropping the white man's burden.Disgust filled me with my former Rousseauian yearnings.With trepidation, one's dreamscan erect barriers more effectivethan the most ill-sponsored illusions.[10]

THE BAY OF CORTESThe sea is a requisitioned article in my possession.Above, in fat circles of conformity, glideturkey vultures, their combsa rich obscenely red.The guano rocks are isles and stepping stonesof bird waste.They lie thick and bedeviled with fish fur,a dull lavender cached hard to the sunseems to shine a metallic harvest whiteas desert rocklets scattered to the breeze.A speck of a fisherman dots the horizon.His craft a barque in loneliness across the sea.Dolphins inveigh the richness of the depths,persuade latitudes to drift about their wake.Pelicans sour the parabola distances between light and sound,become chancy over this distant breath of song.Above the cliffs and the inner roads that followthe desert into geometric squares, stand abodes.The thin supremacy of shadows at dusk disparage thetraveller here.Burros strayed lie dead by the highway's edge.The liquid depth of the mountains reinforces vulnerability.The night air is alive with the torment of insects, asplashwith sound.Lights carry an eerie message dotted about the hills.Feeling alone is a delicacy to be savoured by the standardsof the tropic sun.[12]

The sea is a requisitioned article in my possession.Above, in fat circles of conformity, glideturkey vultures, their combsa rich obscenely red.The guano rocks are isles and stepping stonesof bird waste.They lie thick and bedeviled with fish fur,a dull lavender cached hard to the sunseems to shine a metallic harvest whiteas desert rocklets scattered to the breeze.A speck of a fisherman dots the horizon.His craft a barque in loneliness across the sea.Dolphins inveigh the richness of the depths,persuade latitudes to drift about their wake.Pelicans sour the parabola distances between light and sound,become chancy over this distant breath of song.Above the cliffs and the inner roads that followthe desert into geometric squares, stand abodes.The thin supremacy of shadows at dusk disparage thetraveller here.Burros strayed lie dead by the highway's edge.The liquid depth of the mountains reinforces vulnerability.The night air is alive with the torment of insects, asplashwith sound.Lights carry an eerie message dotted about the hills.Feeling alone is a delicacy to be savoured by the standardsof the tropic sun.[12]

ORACABESSAAn iron wrought gate of turpentine force conveys little pigment,almost black parchment letters mindful ofhands, arched and stroked from the very stone, until anelephantine water runs nettle sand to their granite perch.The broiling heat in this part of the Indies one knows must,posthaste, carry to the humus and flies any modicum ofhuman remains.And, over distant dispatch of time, the elongated sprawl ofwaves dashing up straight to the shallow's grave, makesmemory drawn, any record of the little parish's dead flimsyin the topsy context of soil and undulant peat.A greened isle stares past the feckless scene, past again anaged church noticeboard that scrapes out traces of newsworthy of import to the wormy road.Whitewash, the colour of the shackled crypts, casts uponthe church a pallor of distraught gray.A goat is seen foraging between such marker stones.The day seems to cut into the marble white detachmentof the sarcophagi with abrupt candor.Yet, while the cove pokes like a walking stick, the sun &earth conspire to reclaim this space as their rightful bread.A huge vegetative urge to growth is witness to abundantfurther life - life in whorls of bamboo shoot, naseberrythatches & canebreak all garnished a short stride across the barrier gate.[13]

An iron wrought gate of turpentine force conveys little pigment,almost black parchment letters mindful ofhands, arched and stroked from the very stone, until anelephantine water runs nettle sand to their granite perch.The broiling heat in this part of the Indies one knows must,posthaste, carry to the humus and flies any modicum ofhuman remains.And, over distant dispatch of time, the elongated sprawl ofwaves dashing up straight to the shallow's grave, makesmemory drawn, any record of the little parish's dead flimsyin the topsy context of soil and undulant peat.A greened isle stares past the feckless scene, past again anaged church noticeboard that scrapes out traces of newsworthy of import to the wormy road.Whitewash, the colour of the shackled crypts, casts uponthe church a pallor of distraught gray.A goat is seen foraging between such marker stones.The day seems to cut into the marble white detachmentof the sarcophagi with abrupt candor.Yet, while the cove pokes like a walking stick, the sun &earth conspire to reclaim this space as their rightful bread.A huge vegetative urge to growth is witness to abundantfurther life - life in whorls of bamboo shoot, naseberrythatches & canebreak all garnished a short stride across the barrier gate.[13]

PROSPECTUSIn salt flats,idle poolsbunching off the ocean,multi-legged crabs, worsted stalks -sea crimson weedweigh the panoplyto heighten my deepening fervour.In the bedrock shanksof spread tidal basinsclothed in spools of envelopingbrackish water,a plethora teeming with aqua townsand untold gadgetry exists -replete with mimicryincluding primevalflotilla tanksand broadsheets for spreadingtheir way of life.[14]

In salt flats,idle poolsbunching off the ocean,multi-legged crabs, worsted stalks -sea crimson weedweigh the panoplyto heighten my deepening fervour.In the bedrock shanksof spread tidal basinsclothed in spools of envelopingbrackish water,a plethora teeming with aqua townsand untold gadgetry exists -replete with mimicryincluding primevalflotilla tanksand broadsheets for spreadingtheir way of life.[14]

GLADIATORSNo broken visor, emptied gloveabandoned cudgel, opened net- only gathering spots on spreading sand.Clang of cymbalswrench of flesh,death is a morseldelectably met.[15]

No broken visor, emptied gloveabandoned cudgel, opened net- only gathering spots on spreading sand.Clang of cymbalswrench of flesh,death is a morseldelectably met.[15]

OCEAN SEAAll that is eternal is circular.- AristotleCueta and Tetuan are outposts within the Arab psyche,frail islets jutting their Islamic consciousnessinto the infidel mind.A mere eight miles separates the tip of North Africafrom Iberia's reclining form.An Arab dhow sits off the port of Tangierwhere the unsuspecting can lose more than priapic curiosity.Arabia, from Ormuz to Sofala,an empire of sabulous plenitude -shiekdoms, oil rich fiefs, andluxurious enervation.Da Gama rounds the Bight of Africa, needles the Saracen eye.Tutankhamen rests dolefully within the dunesaway from bone merchants until 1923 draws nigh.Ptolemy errs and extends Africa to the Poles.The noblest failure in antiquity rests in Zamawhile Jesus toiled for our betterment at Galilee.Richard dies besieging Acre.Carnage occurred at Lepanto with attendant demise of the Turk.Marco Polo ignores the Levant for the riches of a Khan.The memory of El Alamein burnt away any vestige of Tobruk.The Casbah is my twain that confirms East & West shall never meet.The False Prophet is in abundance, notwithstandingWestern civilization's fierce resistance to his ideas.Minarets, prayer rugs face Mecca five times daily whileopium on a mother's breast induces premature death inunwanted infant girls.The purdah is an eerie monologue between the feminineform and purloined courage.Mysticism juxtaposes carnal delight in the halls of theSaladein's concubines.Harems & the seraglios are the coveted date wine.In Cape Bojador, there lurks a primeval instinct,a nagging supposition all is not right with Araby.The bath, the cloying sweetness of duplicity,stirs amidst trenchant eyes.Marmelukes are more than adventure book fictionin the silent quarters.The swirling dust, the prohibition of alcoholic drink,are dervishes in the hadji's brain.Everywhere, the ragged people cluster,almsgiving becomes a prayer in the saline night.Any but the Moslem faith caught in the pilgrimmageto Mecca meet swift death.The shopfronts with their bronzed clatter,decantered gold, near haggling that becomesthe economics of plea bargaining, witsdesire against pressing need.Debarking from Algeciras, facing the sublime North Africandesert as her colours coil, pitch forward amongst the hills,squares this continent's personality against the Occident.Europe found other continents soft butter to her trenchant blade.Here, she must consider herself matched with the heady dictates of survival.[16]

All that is eternal is circular.- AristotleCueta and Tetuan are outposts within the Arab psyche,frail islets jutting their Islamic consciousnessinto the infidel mind.A mere eight miles separates the tip of North Africafrom Iberia's reclining form.An Arab dhow sits off the port of Tangierwhere the unsuspecting can lose more than priapic curiosity.Arabia, from Ormuz to Sofala,an empire of sabulous plenitude -shiekdoms, oil rich fiefs, andluxurious enervation.Da Gama rounds the Bight of Africa, needles the Saracen eye.Tutankhamen rests dolefully within the dunesaway from bone merchants until 1923 draws nigh.Ptolemy errs and extends Africa to the Poles.The noblest failure in antiquity rests in Zamawhile Jesus toiled for our betterment at Galilee.Richard dies besieging Acre.Carnage occurred at Lepanto with attendant demise of the Turk.Marco Polo ignores the Levant for the riches of a Khan.The memory of El Alamein burnt away any vestige of Tobruk.The Casbah is my twain that confirms East & West shall never meet.The False Prophet is in abundance, notwithstandingWestern civilization's fierce resistance to his ideas.Minarets, prayer rugs face Mecca five times daily whileopium on a mother's breast induces premature death inunwanted infant girls.The purdah is an eerie monologue between the feminineform and purloined courage.Mysticism juxtaposes carnal delight in the halls of theSaladein's concubines.Harems & the seraglios are the coveted date wine.In Cape Bojador, there lurks a primeval instinct,a nagging supposition all is not right with Araby.The bath, the cloying sweetness of duplicity,stirs amidst trenchant eyes.Marmelukes are more than adventure book fictionin the silent quarters.The swirling dust, the prohibition of alcoholic drink,are dervishes in the hadji's brain.Everywhere, the ragged people cluster,almsgiving becomes a prayer in the saline night.Any but the Moslem faith caught in the pilgrimmageto Mecca meet swift death.The shopfronts with their bronzed clatter,decantered gold, near haggling that becomesthe economics of plea bargaining, witsdesire against pressing need.Debarking from Algeciras, facing the sublime North Africandesert as her colours coil, pitch forward amongst the hills,squares this continent's personality against the Occident.Europe found other continents soft butter to her trenchant blade.Here, she must consider herself matched with the heady dictates of survival.[16]

COLD PASSIONSome dead undid undid their bushy jaws,and bags of blood let out their flies...Dylan ThomasThe land is barrenwears straw wispsas an unkempt manmight razor stubble.The land is dry, a faded yellowin its barrenness.A sky broods from afar,a stalactite sun accounts merely a jotabove that thin road into despair.Grass lies everywhere dead,faded tongues above anearth afflicted with scleroderma,deadliest of skin disturbances,forerunner of deeper pestilence.An erasing wind whips the fieldsfurther into bereavement;turns tiny bits of chaff to pursue themselvesin a mad St. Vitus danceof cold passion.Starry night. With halosabout the moon, pale and languid, big as crimson,far as wind driven flax.The orange pallor, palewith liquid swoon and abilityto churn itself about thenight sky or flood in endlessbeams our poorer spectacle below.[19]

Some dead undid undid their bushy jaws,and bags of blood let out their flies...Dylan ThomasThe land is barrenwears straw wispsas an unkempt manmight razor stubble.The land is dry, a faded yellowin its barrenness.A sky broods from afar,a stalactite sun accounts merely a jotabove that thin road into despair.Grass lies everywhere dead,faded tongues above anearth afflicted with scleroderma,deadliest of skin disturbances,forerunner of deeper pestilence.An erasing wind whips the fieldsfurther into bereavement;turns tiny bits of chaff to pursue themselvesin a mad St. Vitus danceof cold passion.Starry night. With halosabout the moon, pale and languid, big as crimson,far as wind driven flax.The orange pallor, palewith liquid swoon and abilityto churn itself about thenight sky or flood in endlessbeams our poorer spectacle below.[19]

FOR TOM THOMSONI have thrust my fistsup to ice in thegalactic mire of lake,lured my minnow wrigglereyes as bait to ensnareinroads, lake bed wreaths,across the windchill spine ofbrooding heart.I am on the essence of the Northwhere latitudes of cold spontaneityremind me the nameless lakespart not easily with their secrets.A man's bones go easily to rotin the frigid perspirationcalled primeval ooze,precambrian sweat,the tertiary stage syphilitic crawlof advancing ice.All those terms your detractors, analyzers,devotees coin to define you: the Boreal,taiga, subarctic steppes, white hell,recoil under the onslaught, the lustrate message strainingup alkaline clear.Water is your blood.A vast hoarding, most of thisplanet's fresh drinkis flushed through yourbowels, with kidneysseparating the renicqualities as snow andsleet, the night side ofyour character.Tom, son of Thomson fame,his little canoe immeshedas scrubbed floorboards now,a giant winnowing such scatteredfirewood over a slow crop ofputrefying muck; perhapsI see your eyesas sturdy bubblespopping from legionsof green liquidto carouse with yourfirm memory.[21]

I have thrust my fistsup to ice in thegalactic mire of lake,lured my minnow wrigglereyes as bait to ensnareinroads, lake bed wreaths,across the windchill spine ofbrooding heart.I am on the essence of the Northwhere latitudes of cold spontaneityremind me the nameless lakespart not easily with their secrets.A man's bones go easily to rotin the frigid perspirationcalled primeval ooze,precambrian sweat,the tertiary stage syphilitic crawlof advancing ice.All those terms your detractors, analyzers,devotees coin to define you: the Boreal,taiga, subarctic steppes, white hell,recoil under the onslaught, the lustrate message strainingup alkaline clear.Water is your blood.A vast hoarding, most of thisplanet's fresh drinkis flushed through yourbowels, with kidneysseparating the renicqualities as snow andsleet, the night side ofyour character.Tom, son of Thomson fame,his little canoe immeshedas scrubbed floorboards now,a giant winnowing such scatteredfirewood over a slow crop ofputrefying muck; perhapsI see your eyesas sturdy bubblespopping from legionsof green liquidto carouse with yourfirm memory.[21]

THE WOODSMANBarely annoying the woods,his cabin like our woodpilehome now for chipmunks and birds,isolated by the lily pads -he eschewed all comfort.The view barely cognizant,the prospect of the Massasauga rattlerand an occasional broken tinsharp at the edgeswas like water's driftaudible, not yet seen.Toying with the cove,past island jetties& blueberry grovesinside little giant's tomb;this man became ingratiated with lake treasure,his clearing a triumphant blast.He affixed his mark -blazoning human habitationon a lonely spot.[23]

Barely annoying the woods,his cabin like our woodpilehome now for chipmunks and birds,isolated by the lily pads -he eschewed all comfort.The view barely cognizant,the prospect of the Massasauga rattlerand an occasional broken tinsharp at the edgeswas like water's driftaudible, not yet seen.Toying with the cove,past island jetties& blueberry grovesinside little giant's tomb;this man became ingratiated with lake treasure,his clearing a triumphant blast.He affixed his mark -blazoning human habitationon a lonely spot.[23]

EAST OF OSWEGOETiconderoga to Lake George,the classic invasion routeup the Richelieu valleypast Plattsburg,Verdun,à Montréalacross the North Shorereroute againto savour Albany;last of the trading posts east of Oswegobefore New Yorkprotective sanctuarylodgings,free from the scalping knifebarrens andthe horrors Fenimore Cooper described.Apple crisp, fall damp the airwith an unbroken stretch of forestand Adirondack mountains,there, delicate slipof fair womanhoodbliss, she lies, gentle as the finger lakesclothed in autumn crimson.[24]

Ticonderoga to Lake George,the classic invasion routeup the Richelieu valleypast Plattsburg,Verdun,à Montréalacross the North Shorereroute againto savour Albany;last of the trading posts east of Oswegobefore New Yorkprotective sanctuarylodgings,free from the scalping knifebarrens andthe horrors Fenimore Cooper described.Apple crisp, fall damp the airwith an unbroken stretch of forestand Adirondack mountains,there, delicate slipof fair womanhoodbliss, she lies, gentle as the finger lakesclothed in autumn crimson.[24]

PRESENCE OF MINDSpring heralds the summer with lilacs perched from that door.In snows, a swarm of bushes lie black and apparentlyrootless as the town's iron-gate bridge collapses under thecentre part of the main road.Little enclaves of activity pass as stores,mere centrefolds across busy highway arteries this timeof year.I am a grey fleck in my dark wool coat near the perimeterof a winding fence.The casual observer gives me half a chance to be seen inthe deathless white, opaque coloured moonstone so stillagainst the field's shores.A plaster river, her sides inserted with isle-dotted chunks,hands across a winter solstice tribal dance.Ostensibly, I poke the land from stylized limbo,a chalky substance disturbed with every movement's cough.And if I were to fall, lie down, and cry,the agonized winter's frantic sunwould bury me with shadows,give forth dark branches to my freedom.In the growing dark, I ponder white and infinity.The hectic pace of the distant highway absorbsless and less my hope.In private cold, my face burns a tallow white,toes flake in frostbite or erode every sensation.Stars in the dark canopy above are cryptic mourners andpeople frigid sorrow.Black is my colour as I ebb steadily toward their heights.By morning, when the first wisp of straw or dry leafcatches light near this stringent fence, an occasionalpasserby with the presence of mind shall comment howlifeless fields are in the clutch of brittle snow.[25]

Spring heralds the summer with lilacs perched from that door.In snows, a swarm of bushes lie black and apparentlyrootless as the town's iron-gate bridge collapses under thecentre part of the main road.Little enclaves of activity pass as stores,mere centrefolds across busy highway arteries this timeof year.I am a grey fleck in my dark wool coat near the perimeterof a winding fence.The casual observer gives me half a chance to be seen inthe deathless white, opaque coloured moonstone so stillagainst the field's shores.A plaster river, her sides inserted with isle-dotted chunks,hands across a winter solstice tribal dance.Ostensibly, I poke the land from stylized limbo,a chalky substance disturbed with every movement's cough.And if I were to fall, lie down, and cry,the agonized winter's frantic sunwould bury me with shadows,give forth dark branches to my freedom.In the growing dark, I ponder white and infinity.The hectic pace of the distant highway absorbsless and less my hope.In private cold, my face burns a tallow white,toes flake in frostbite or erode every sensation.Stars in the dark canopy above are cryptic mourners andpeople frigid sorrow.Black is my colour as I ebb steadily toward their heights.By morning, when the first wisp of straw or dry leafcatches light near this stringent fence, an occasionalpasserby with the presence of mind shall comment howlifeless fields are in the clutch of brittle snow.[25]

FISHING NETSThe polar stars drip in blood . . .Orion's mythical crystal whitewith clarity of forest andlow expanse of sky;wooden barques, incandescent,row peals of silver lightsowing each slough of wave,spider hues drip upon wetnessforlorn with tug and rein.[27]

The polar stars drip in blood . . .Orion's mythical crystal whitewith clarity of forest andlow expanse of sky;wooden barques, incandescent,row peals of silver lightsowing each slough of wave,spider hues drip upon wetnessforlorn with tug and rein.[27]

RITES OF INTENSIFICATIONDid time on the Hegelianspirit, Freudian id,the totemic response tothe unknowablewhere each phenomenon of naturebecame dream time itself,the electric crackleof God's Voice-movement from shadowy spectre totight-lipped showmanshipthe learned empathyof tires careening aroundtheir throttled load.[28]

Did time on the Hegelianspirit, Freudian id,the totemic response tothe unknowablewhere each phenomenon of naturebecame dream time itself,the electric crackleof God's Voice-movement from shadowy spectre totight-lipped showmanshipthe learned empathyof tires careening aroundtheir throttled load.[28]

JAGGED WIREA rail fence is more than that on a country dawnmoving by lots over hill & stone;it barely pauses in the small of the field's lap,then is caught in grey positioning aslight unfurls the sky.All is a matter of perfect blistering -dauber wasps are seen to heave the moistened woodin chunks to mossy furrows, benignin their firm embrace upon alabaster trees.There, crusts of heavy nails, markedlike fortresses, droop in their rusty mail.Mostly ants, in open canter, movein as upon an urn & lance far morethan jagged wire the breath of stillest air.[29]

A rail fence is more than that on a country dawnmoving by lots over hill & stone;it barely pauses in the small of the field's lap,then is caught in grey positioning aslight unfurls the sky.All is a matter of perfect blistering -dauber wasps are seen to heave the moistened woodin chunks to mossy furrows, benignin their firm embrace upon alabaster trees.There, crusts of heavy nails, markedlike fortresses, droop in their rusty mail.Mostly ants, in open canter, movein as upon an urn & lance far morethan jagged wire the breath of stillest air.[29]

EYESHINEI remember the world like a picture.The habitat of trees and sense impressions,the cover of leaves as fall spurred its waythru corridors of plasma forest & sarsen stone.Most of all, I saw illuminated clearlythe brash self poke of logic that camemassively when sunlight stirred, liltedits early head erasing the world thrusand crusts of colour.The cabin floor, a cold dawn infinity,was a chilblain on frosty morning shadows -the old cupboards staring like flowersthrough a break in the leaveswatched till the latches & hinges were worldsin frozen power, dark rust as thoughtsmeandering like age.The stamped down clay, the well worn earthen crustthat met the door on opening showedthe erring calender all its interminabledays that waited, like madmen, to remind one of oceanictime.And, on wakening, the careless passageof life across speckled windows saw a terrain of light -tiny works in agility, the forestlooming bright as meridiansoff ladders bristling with homuncular forms.Door of caring, the gentle trailleft as a universe to announcethe brittle thrust and restive evesof daytime shadow.[30]

I remember the world like a picture.The habitat of trees and sense impressions,the cover of leaves as fall spurred its waythru corridors of plasma forest & sarsen stone.Most of all, I saw illuminated clearlythe brash self poke of logic that camemassively when sunlight stirred, liltedits early head erasing the world thrusand crusts of colour.The cabin floor, a cold dawn infinity,was a chilblain on frosty morning shadows -the old cupboards staring like flowersthrough a break in the leaveswatched till the latches & hinges were worldsin frozen power, dark rust as thoughtsmeandering like age.The stamped down clay, the well worn earthen crustthat met the door on opening showedthe erring calender all its interminabledays that waited, like madmen, to remind one of oceanictime.And, on wakening, the careless passageof life across speckled windows saw a terrain of light -tiny works in agility, the forestlooming bright as meridiansoff ladders bristling with homuncular forms.Door of caring, the gentle trailleft as a universe to announcethe brittle thrust and restive evesof daytime shadow.[30]

SWEET WATERThe leaves lie hidden as spades about their home.Brief movement of a kitten, then silencetill the car's engine drones.Close by, a pioneer cemetery sits near a secondary wood.Queer is the effect of sun on a tinted roof;bluebells with poppies,cowslip and tiny brookback offields redden andgiven to wheat.A house is a machineprocessing the water of livinga replenished cistern,birds paying a call, a minor animalbrushing pastan ivy-railed fence.[32]

The leaves lie hidden as spades about their home.Brief movement of a kitten, then silencetill the car's engine drones.Close by, a pioneer cemetery sits near a secondary wood.Queer is the effect of sun on a tinted roof;bluebells with poppies,cowslip and tiny brookback offields redden andgiven to wheat.A house is a machineprocessing the water of livinga replenished cistern,birds paying a call, a minor animalbrushing pastan ivy-railed fence.[32]

PRIMAVERAA poem is perishable and,like it,so much of life is spentin intervals -the jarring secondregaining consciousness,a post-mortem flickof the lank equestrian eyelidthat signals morning's first crepuscular move.... a little salad consciousnessabout the tumescent roomwith the sentient purr of a cat;her musky oilsa green verdurelapping primordial scentto engross a little readinessas the day progressesto its Oedipal stageand arrested development.[33]

A poem is perishable and,like it,so much of life is spentin intervals -the jarring secondregaining consciousness,a post-mortem flickof the lank equestrian eyelidthat signals morning's first crepuscular move.... a little salad consciousnessabout the tumescent roomwith the sentient purr of a cat;her musky oilsa green verdurelapping primordial scentto engross a little readinessas the day progressesto its Oedipal stageand arrested development.[33]

THE ENCOUNTERToday surprised melike a red fox blurtingout of an October thicket -empty, dry, the burst of itsenergy camouflaged much asthat fox, solemn and cold,biding his timetill he thought Ipassed.[34]

Today surprised melike a red fox blurtingout of an October thicket -empty, dry, the burst of itsenergy camouflaged much asthat fox, solemn and cold,biding his timetill he thought Ipassed.[34]

MAGPIE TONGUESTrillium breath, an ounceof feathered growth unravelsin the cloves of the silent forest.The rain is heavy with the stampof perfumed trees realizingslight restraint on bursting seed.Cloaked in fragrance, tuftsof mossy step kiss the opening earth,a basement horizon presumesthe darling test of floweracross dale & rustling nook,then undresses moist greenerywith sumptuous eye.The last is hardest -cat crimson, a fire weed sunset lotion,the rain erased away;nobody special harangues the leavesbut birds steal in quietly withtenderness clothed of verdureto pinch a leafy oasis abouttheir forest haunt.[35]

Trillium breath, an ounceof feathered growth unravelsin the cloves of the silent forest.The rain is heavy with the stampof perfumed trees realizingslight restraint on bursting seed.Cloaked in fragrance, tuftsof mossy step kiss the opening earth,a basement horizon presumesthe darling test of floweracross dale & rustling nook,then undresses moist greenerywith sumptuous eye.The last is hardest -cat crimson, a fire weed sunset lotion,the rain erased away;nobody special harangues the leavesbut birds steal in quietly withtenderness clothed of verdureto pinch a leafy oasis abouttheir forest haunt.[35]

PLUMS & VINEPlums and vine (as the Atlantic is green)intone the heavy church wallwith errant sprigs, so Heaven sentthey are big with earthly passionracing for the sky.Madonna Poverta in her midstwith the pulpit clutching Light -so gnarled, like bush, that each crevicereeks with stoneall stooped under such worldly avarice.[36]

Plums and vine (as the Atlantic is green)intone the heavy church wallwith errant sprigs, so Heaven sentthey are big with earthly passionracing for the sky.Madonna Poverta in her midstwith the pulpit clutching Light -so gnarled, like bush, that each crevicereeks with stoneall stooped under such worldly avarice.[36]

PERHAPSPerhaps the sky once was shadows,the moon lisped 'mongst April's song.Now, those warm lips easedeparting sorrowlike pressed flowersemptied from hallowed ground.[37]

Perhaps the sky once was shadows,the moon lisped 'mongst April's song.Now, those warm lips easedeparting sorrowlike pressed flowersemptied from hallowed ground.[37]

APPROACHING THIRTY (Lauds and Matins)Laconic tears or Botticelli's Venusholding the yearslike tressesin a wistful pose.Tenebrous youth accostedby callow Timebleeds the heartwith spring aloes.No comfortable shibbolethsto restrain the wriggling polypsin the skin or nestling hair.Gerundive in movement,each particled whimperof the clock surroundsa cloistered secondpoised about the bearded target.As far as you know, nothing unusual.A total of eight hundred monthsbut grammar school sums,spiel & mileageto drift across a lifetime.At thirty, the best half of the potageis gruel hand drawn fromthe sabulous pot.[38]

Laconic tears or Botticelli's Venusholding the yearslike tressesin a wistful pose.Tenebrous youth accostedby callow Timebleeds the heartwith spring aloes.No comfortable shibbolethsto restrain the wriggling polypsin the skin or nestling hair.Gerundive in movement,each particled whimperof the clock surroundsa cloistered secondpoised about the bearded target.As far as you know, nothing unusual.A total of eight hundred monthsbut grammar school sums,spiel & mileageto drift across a lifetime.At thirty, the best half of the potageis gruel hand drawn fromthe sabulous pot.[38]

PASSAGEWAYSGreet the days -greet the moon,gather the stars...Man is not at one with himself -collars the infidel ways of hisrace under pressure domes of widening silence.I scan the horizon barely cognizantof the metallic bits that piercethe night's crown - nojewelled orb stabs this queen's spectre.I am running and lost. . . ever slowto breech this reasoning.Honeysuckle mist with armfulsof orange lilies with scent strongerthan the carriage needed in their gathering.Place the constellations upon their heads,the colour so transcends.And then there are the bludgeonedstars fallen into the eyes ofmy farmhouse scene.The sphinx moth that darns the nightwith her acrobatics escapes the wreathof troubled moon that places abouther proboscised head.Let her stone the night in peace,feel palpitations on her ocean breast.The darting of stone cracks in fissuresalong the causeway to the stonehouseis certain and sure.A definite mood projectsthe starling tunnels,forlorn now with limpid darkness,crushed lavender from the pewsof thoughtful night.There are armfuls of crushed batsin the passageway to my heart,each reeking with squealsto alarm the most frightened princess.Only one has stained the pass keyand I must find her.A toad abides the thoughtful recessbroken under the wall.He is a good toad and mournsthe night creaking from the river bed.A monster dragon to the insectsmaking a living near the light -a source of amused contempt to lepidoptristssqueezing the eye's circle,pressing her to release her giddy charms.At morning, skeletal remainsshall stain the blighted chain (mood collector, toad, moth)but, for now, only the night buzzes with alarm,cracking her secrets with each tiny monsterhurled at light's intrusion into dark.Perchance I shall narrowdown the divide, position alarms,remind myself I am inured to themood & scent that mans this cosmic bandwagon.I hold up flowers to remind melight escapes through jellyand that rare LUMINESCENCE exists onlyin lost bat chambersburied deep near the recessesof the snake.The cry of havoc,all those armfuls of collapsed liliesbreaking under the toil of enforced handshakesleaves me like a broken lamp.I have no more shades to patchthe plinths or barricade my heart.I have left my love on bended kneein a land I choose to forget.[39]

Greet the days -greet the moon,gather the stars...Man is not at one with himself -collars the infidel ways of hisrace under pressure domes of widening silence.I scan the horizon barely cognizantof the metallic bits that piercethe night's crown - nojewelled orb stabs this queen's spectre.I am running and lost. . . ever slowto breech this reasoning.Honeysuckle mist with armfulsof orange lilies with scent strongerthan the carriage needed in their gathering.Place the constellations upon their heads,the colour so transcends.And then there are the bludgeonedstars fallen into the eyes ofmy farmhouse scene.The sphinx moth that darns the nightwith her acrobatics escapes the wreathof troubled moon that places abouther proboscised head.Let her stone the night in peace,feel palpitations on her ocean breast.The darting of stone cracks in fissuresalong the causeway to the stonehouseis certain and sure.A definite mood projectsthe starling tunnels,forlorn now with limpid darkness,crushed lavender from the pewsof thoughtful night.There are armfuls of crushed batsin the passageway to my heart,each reeking with squealsto alarm the most frightened princess.Only one has stained the pass keyand I must find her.A toad abides the thoughtful recessbroken under the wall.He is a good toad and mournsthe night creaking from the river bed.A monster dragon to the insectsmaking a living near the light -a source of amused contempt to lepidoptristssqueezing the eye's circle,pressing her to release her giddy charms.At morning, skeletal remainsshall stain the blighted chain (mood collector, toad, moth)but, for now, only the night buzzes with alarm,cracking her secrets with each tiny monsterhurled at light's intrusion into dark.Perchance I shall narrowdown the divide, position alarms,remind myself I am inured to themood & scent that mans this cosmic bandwagon.I hold up flowers to remind melight escapes through jellyand that rare LUMINESCENCE exists onlyin lost bat chambersburied deep near the recessesof the snake.The cry of havoc,all those armfuls of collapsed liliesbreaking under the toil of enforced handshakesleaves me like a broken lamp.I have no more shades to patchthe plinths or barricade my heart.I have left my love on bended kneein a land I choose to forget.[39]

KINDLINGAs a matter of fact,ovens do carry a glazed stare,fireplaces are wont to parrythoughts to kindlingbefore their stoop andon breathless summer nightsone is hard pressedto recall cinder andblackened barleys any morevegetatively than uponthese harridan pots.[42]

As a matter of fact,ovens do carry a glazed stare,fireplaces are wont to parrythoughts to kindlingbefore their stoop andon breathless summer nightsone is hard pressedto recall cinder andblackened barleys any morevegetatively than uponthese harridan pots.[42]

THE GLOWWORMIn slow sutures of pale white -dabbed in growing spume & mud dried earth,a glowworm is obliterated by warm, soft lightcoming up to elbow particles of near dappled claythat plants dissect, warm as feasts, aloft a muscat lawn.Pale, segmented tortoise -trite in area and jellied purpose,the glowworm oozes headlongthrough an aroused darknecking furiously with fungus turdsand truffles rooted from thepig ground by mice sized swineholidaying on scents and mildew salvagedthru pores & nestling bowelsof their planet sized turf.[43]

In slow sutures of pale white -dabbed in growing spume & mud dried earth,a glowworm is obliterated by warm, soft lightcoming up to elbow particles of near dappled claythat plants dissect, warm as feasts, aloft a muscat lawn.Pale, segmented tortoise -trite in area and jellied purpose,the glowworm oozes headlongthrough an aroused darknecking furiously with fungus turdsand truffles rooted from thepig ground by mice sized swineholidaying on scents and mildew salvagedthru pores & nestling bowelsof their planet sized turf.[43]

BETWEEN TWO STONESThey poured hot water into people's cupsin which green tea leaves were floatinglike algae,or into red-painted spittoonsplaced on the floorwhich the travellers made frequent use of...It was strangely quiet.[44]

They poured hot water into people's cupsin which green tea leaves were floatinglike algae,or into red-painted spittoonsplaced on the floorwhich the travellers made frequent use of...It was strangely quiet.[44]

THE WATERS OF THE BAY LIE BENEATHAn abandoned house -dark salved to eclectic;crinkly, black pigment of old pine boardsdisparate to the elements.The waters of the bay lie beneath.A long slope trailing back of brush,garbles stones hoarsein the throat of a dust-flecked fieldare made more barrenby the skunk cabbage weeds,the ugly, flotsam cloaksof horse hair to the neck -a hair shirt, coddling abrupt the barren paintilled from empty soil.The summer's heat.Nameless insect waifswavering, adjusting tumultto straighten the tight airabout the outward door frame.Pinched in windows, glass inrefugee lots billowing abouturine paper;nails a ruddy pickdried to rusty blue,some dim shiny in their cropped disrepair.A road dry, rotating bare,nameless zigzaggedonly limestone in shelvesmeanders inthrongs about stony debris,sometimes up to this beaten house.[45]

An abandoned house -dark salved to eclectic;crinkly, black pigment of old pine boardsdisparate to the elements.The waters of the bay lie beneath.A long slope trailing back of brush,garbles stones hoarsein the throat of a dust-flecked fieldare made more barrenby the skunk cabbage weeds,the ugly, flotsam cloaksof horse hair to the neck -a hair shirt, coddling abrupt the barren paintilled from empty soil.The summer's heat.Nameless insect waifswavering, adjusting tumultto straighten the tight airabout the outward door frame.Pinched in windows, glass inrefugee lots billowing abouturine paper;nails a ruddy pickdried to rusty blue,some dim shiny in their cropped disrepair.A road dry, rotating bare,nameless zigzaggedonly limestone in shelvesmeanders inthrongs about stony debris,sometimes up to this beaten house.[45]

PASSINGI should be busy with wordsbut light distracts memakes for me, in the sowing of its waves,neutral observances, a chilled awarenessthat the sublime is contained hereinthe wonders of the commonplace.[47]

I should be busy with wordsbut light distracts memakes for me, in the sowing of its waves,neutral observances, a chilled awarenessthat the sublime is contained hereinthe wonders of the commonplace.[47]

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