Weather Eye Open (New California Poetry, Volume 13)

By Sarah Gridley

The windmill's exertions is contingent upon the elements, upon what air plenty, at any given time, overlie its panorama. Anticipatory in temper, climate Eye Open adopts the logo of the windmill, looking what Merleau-Ponty calls the "inspiration and expiration of Being." The windmill serves as analogue to the perceiving topic, to the poet, whose realization, although rooted and partial, is but constantly receptive to being energized, grew to become. Like open sails, the perceiver ushers the elements interior, changing one movement, the wind, to a different, the grinding burrstones. The poems during this assortment pursue an identical transmutation via language, a staying open to its a number of climate (and even if) platforms. For Sarah Gridley, language moves on the "X" of expertise: half presence and half absence, half spirit and half topic, half domestic and half homesickness, half harnessed and half wild. within the face of such climate, the stance of the poet is either rapacious and passive, looking out and struck nonetheless.

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Backbone looking for tributary, thinned gold sheets have been to copy tongue. ninety two Industrial Magdalene at the back of the realm of workmanship the fervour spent by means of all issues harnessed used to be the respiring of the final Hurrah & Gearing Up of Elemental Vagaries. cross then & ask the great staff Are you grinders or gilders? The solar climbs up for something— the coin for water is video game is rife is dam is gone—the course for water runs cleverly—ruins now not yet takes the going tenderly. Scruples now not, nor stops there: weds, unweds, whores. ninety three Swayamvara hi, wonderful. thanks for leaving that tone in my computing device. I? am dealing blackjack. A breeze is tampering with a chandelier. A crowd has collected, all gloved. A peacock lovers on a eco-friendly felt desk, all eyes. an odd energy lighting the backyard. desire I say who, within the nook, coughing? A cigar field opens. The eyes increase. and that i selected you. as though to provide an explanation for Xowers inlaid in a lady’s cupboard. Or peace in a dripping grotto. Or evacuation of the Xesh via mystery, ivory keys. bear in mind, Dearlungs, the physique un-architected? Piled in a tumbler case, the played-out reeds? The grass? The hoppers? The thousand stops? hi, gorgeous. hi. ninety four Jupiter positioned us no longer into or within outdated lullaby tactic the realm rocking it seems that light now within the snow preventing lightly (it might) the Wre uninterested within the method less than the skylights close with white the cells nonetheless wish nightfall suppering the lookful sunlight bending woodward the blue ninety five grapes drifting black & vertigo the approximate thrill within the sea of tasting them open ninety six Psyche Speaks of Eros the place I opened his glance at nighttime, Love blessed me silly. My go out begun with odor of wings like Wlmstrip burning. via go out I stole, snuVed in accordion pleats, his arrows and his light ink. allow them to Xicker. hence I stored him crumpled shut, godlike with appears to be like and unintentional target. Of outer edge, past the tissue maps of 2 fingers held opposed to horizon, i will be able to most sensible say not anything. What I see is absent potential: mint leaves in cracked cups, oil sinking eco-friendly illumination into bread, the black goats’ miniature copper bells. Please forgive the scattering fables. I worry pride is a misbegotten compound, Love, a texture, no longer a move. As ever the gods are sturdy at recompensing—at feeding silvers to the upturned palm. One notice for this can be rain. yet frequently a floor belies a floor. See front: a way during which anything is entered. Then front: to aVect with ask yourself, to hold away. ninety seven What Is misplaced within the hearth has to be Sought within the Ashes The wood-reeve kneels on the yew, scoops snow from its roots to chill his face and throat. within the corridor, fox-red ale surpasses cups, rivers into desk grain. The musicians on my own haven't been ingesting. At stiV strings they summon pleasure from little pleasure. The harpist in his brain invokes Saint Dunstan: purchaser of armorers, jewelers, lighthouse keepers. Straightening, the wood-reeve ends his techniques with phrases: What tidings, rook, what tidings? by way of trip of replicate to reflect, a small Wre powers a spacious warning at the waves.

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