Where Dispose Of The Joke Of Bones - Minimalist Cryptics Sometimes Metaphysical, circa 1981
.
For two:
Agnes Martin, American artist,
minimalist painter extraordinaire
Elaine Bellezza, artist, too,
and traveler,
and early Anima-as-Fate,
and 'eye giver'
'Is that dance slowing in the mind of man
that made him think the universe could hum? ' - Theodore Roethke
1
off the square
in the darkest cell
where darkness is at its deepest -
some sense of home
those forms bursting forth
2
seal us in
ascetic fire -
and the cave become a dissonance
the lament on your face of saffron reddening
3
but the grids never are
little girls jumping rope
challenge circle words,
the self of rings
like a brown back
the empty form goes
extends outward
yet these words do not contain you
4
you have an 'element'
the word is ugly too
dearer than a son
cut cut cut out
the heart that lies
walking seems to cover time
the summit is rounded
outline of a foot on a rock
5
you speak in circles
though loving squares
when I cover squares clad in ashes
are all questions then mother of pearl
6
the pilaster speaks
loudly of days
dearer than wealth
the silence on the floor
7
discover the last image
how skim the ocean of brine
you wear on your face
that gray weight
die for more
this is life
8
the plain can do almost
nothing but weep
to turn my eyes away
destroys its power
the untamed fire
9
between the rain
whose throat is blue
like a wild fern is clear
I am sad when I see you
10
your letters arrive fat
swollen with human form
they fly out from my palms
look around you
11
mind now
mistaken
dying flowers
not traceable
instead -
believe the sky is not so wide
it reaches forward
(let us pass)
it is a far cry
is pervasive
get rid of everything
only see in me a part
12
tell me now
glass-handled knives
I'm not clear where we started
13
the pagoda and the spire
poke the eye
I once understood you as
articulate who couldn't stand
now knowledge is less and less to
me
and a clear mind -
the rose
are squared
white edge
of the world
ugly
sitting in
snow
14
where dispose of the joke of bones
one must feel the forms
bursting in the tranquil shade
the reality of virtual form
sitting in said snow
the beat of a wing we grieve
certain words repeating -
the world 'ugly'
and just is the 'plain'
what becomes of skin
what becomes of a lotus petal
it tears apart
15
believe the streets are blistering
Nature is the wheel
settle for less
some sense of home
those forms bursting forth
between the rain
whose throat is blue
like a wild fern is clear
they fly out from my palms
look around you
poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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