by Kitty Jospé
In the Silence of the Cathedral at Tréguier
Chance light, shadow magic colors ground in glass— Here, a chance moment in the cathedral of Saint Tugdal, as if the Welsh monk himself decreed that the stones must carry on the stories broken in the stained glass and I say, a chance for chance angels to dance with echoes cast by the sun— ruby, cobalt, trace of antimony. Photo by poet taken in Tréguier, Brittany 9/2022.
Lighting Corners What unlikely coherence suddenly when sun arrives to paint unswept angles with light up until now, unnoticed— resplendent silken choreography left for the sun to dazzle. Sometimes it is in a nook, a recess, in corners of our mind, we find coherence, unlikely directions creating small whispers of perhaps where something might have been otherwise. Even on the darkest days, one line comes to corner another, for a brief moment candles hope in surprising ways.
Undercoating —ekphrastic response to David Delaney's painting Come on now, come on What did you hear there, by those leafless trees penning their stories in the rising mist? Perhaps the bark of his dog? No sheep agrees on direction, and two look out at us, insist on being in charge of themselves if you please. Doesn't bother the shepherd. But if one is missed at the end of the day, that's a different bleat to this story. Alone, he thinks of all he wished and of all he loves, each bird, (or sheep). I don't know where he's headed, but trust he's playing tunes he asked his lover to teach him, knowing when they're gone, he'll cherish the rich harmony of their melody.
David Delaney.
of figures gazing into a series of different landscapes or set-ups.
Untitled -- for Marcia Resnick I I wonder what he's thinking, if he's the one who put up the fence, wonder if the stick he's holding is going to be part of the fence, maybe to keep out anyone thinking of building in these hills. I wonder if a hand on his hip, the parallel triangle of the elbow echoing the bent knee of his crossed leg is passing judgement and wonder how long he's had that hat, how hot it is and whether the scrub and pebbles hurt his barefeet. What defines us in a moment? II Perhaps thinking elbows out, hand on hip one bare foot crossed in front of the other thoughts rolling like the hills, like those shifting clouds with all that possibility of might be all that could-be-food for musing on perhaps. I feel the pound of his heart in mine, pondering directions I imagine a small twitch of the jawbone, an intensity in the gaze, a total immersion in the perception of land a pause before the next moment.
Intriguing
the way her hair bubbles
into a cascade down her bare back,
the way the first waterfall tumbles
over the rock in youthful helter-skelter
and intriguing, the way the hip thrusts
out, shaking that left pant leg straight
just like the edge of the upper waterfall,
caught in a deliberate pose as if nothing
will shake it– and yet the water is
falling, and that bent leg will want
to resume the path.
Intriguing how those rocks—everywhere,
repeat that crook in her elbow—
whether triangled in shadow or say
that one above to her right, upper
wet, shiny rock, lower line rigid
in flatness, of set jawbone.
There’s intrigue in her defiance and
I want her to turn and face us,
tell us how she’s looking out
for herself, taking in the scene.
[1] from See, a photographic book of figures gazing into a series of different landscapes or set-ups. The label says, “they are faceless, but not featureless”. In 1975, she self-published See as a photographic book, learning to print halftones herself and independently distributing her work.
The epigraph for the book includes the statement: “My body simultaneously sees and is seen. That which looks at all things can also look at itself and recognize, in what it sees, the ‘other side’ of its power of looking. It sees itself seeing.” photo part of this exhibit “As it is or Could Be” https://www.eastman.org/resnick
Superimposition How do I love thee? Let me light the ways— one flashlight gazing at the other, and beyond to the shadows cast, as we echo and praise, catch our reflection, to enter the picture, respond to our quiet need for light and for each other— How do we love? It is our secret discovered that light connects the old-fashioned lover (that chair with arms) with the slip-covered modern square, my rectangular camera reflected. Look at me, this way, I asked you, to be connected in this arrangement of radiance, chairs, so our gaze at each other is part of the picture! Let our vow, exchanging I do, as we continue in our maze of years, be visible in this brief reflection now. * Photograph: Part of exhibit ADAM EKBERG: MINOR SPECTACLES on view at the George Eastman Museum, January 14–September 3, 2023, Project Gallery https://www.eastman.org/ekberg
Beyond my words
nothing can come
close to telling you how it feels
to be me. A simple smile or laugh
will add an outline of something
bigger behind them. I'm struck dumb
by so many thoughts that seem to peel
away from any point, refuse a staff
to help with balance, take everything
in a different direction that some
might call normal. Why it's such a big deal
to try to belong, is more complicated chaff
(that distracts us from the wheat) What bling
do we accept not really wanting it? What crumb
do we pretend will fill our hunger or seal
out those demons? And that's not the half
of it looking at hate and history. So, I sing
with peppered sounds, consonants over vowels:
A sings the long and short of apples
and angst, atypical. E slides
as sandwich into yes,
I ifs itself, O rounds out
wonder and U? Upon
my word, and understanding
everything beyond counts, U
is us and how we are together.
About this poem: The idea of using vowels comes from Peter Grizzi's poem
Lines Depicting Simple Happiness. Underlying the formal repeat of rhyme in
the 4 stanzas, clearly the vowels seem happy to be free of constraint!
What to Make when typos transform ramifications into rammed fictions and what to make of manifestions of Q&A of festering questions and what hand lands in what manuscript— what man in management? This could be one of those dances where loving the addict is an argument with the impossible. I say, Do not listen to the clamor of claver or the clamoring of Clavering. Seriously, a propos the inevitable complications not to mention frictions of being human, that ache of not knowing what one should say: What stand to make your mark even if you are feeling tongue-tripped, brick-flicked, feeling quite bent out of shape? What pose do you take? What rose picked for thorny errors in the arsenal? Do tell me how you make your make over, how you make do in the end. About this poem: It all started with an idea of an erasure poem of Robinson's Clavering. My daily notes are so scattered, but I wanted to do something with the comical typo that starts the poem. I was intrigued with the poem referenced, but also stumbled on Bukowski's poem For the Foxes, Mark Strand's Short Panegyric which put me in a jovial mood. What is it to be human? What to make of us? How to deal? Make is a useful verb coupled with prepositions. Make up your own answer, to make do. Make over whatever you need to make your own mark. ______________________________ 2https://poets.org/poem/elastic-love-contrapuntal 3https://www.best-poems.net/edwin_arlington_robinson/clavering.html Clavering: a village in England but also means, "a place where clover grows".
A-Bun-Dance
Before the ballet, she decorates
her hair-bun with butterflies,
blue and copper hairstreak
peacock fritillaries
to make a kingdom of grey
liven into abundance--
yes, these amazing,
ephemeral, winged wonders
know how to taste with their feet,
understand the language
of flutter,
the tremble
of poplar.
There on her gathered tresses
the butterflies will act an abun-
dance of gilded flames
on a Buddhist thangka.
Her slippered feet
allow us to taste
the feeling of flight—
that oh for so brief possible
that indeed
we were meant
for wings.
About this poem:
I went through my writing diary, collecting images that might fit the trio of syllables in abundance. Recently, I have been reading about Protactile or PT, as a language in action in performance which reminds me of choreography and the idea of a dancer's chignon came to mind, first as stage, then as necessary parameter, then removed, no longer necessary, having invited the reader to imagine his/her/their scenario.
Let us imagine this scene brings joy
There's something
in the way the shadows spill
down
on the
diagonal
and the eye lands on the
chicks and their fluffed-feathered
newness and the emerald and gold
pair conversing in between bites.
Not so bad here, eh? Plenty
of perches and food.
Something that feels right about
the sun having warmed the red painted brick.
Do you see how the indigo parakeets
parade as a pair? There they are,
by that black rectangle where the sun
slides by without entering.
Something about the open door,
in spite of the dark.
About this poem: The prompt for the poem was "what brings joy". There is no one prescription for it, and yet, it is a universal we all can know, perhaps a shared joy, a sense of sacred, or an overwhelming gratitude to be alive. Looking at the play of sun on the red brick, the slant of shadows of perches in a large aviary in the Parc Thabor in Rennes immediately brought me joy in spite of a grey, cold day and troublesome arthritis.
Even if you didn't know where the scene happened, or how big an area was open to these birds, would you too have thought "joy"?
Kitty Jospé: retired French teacher, active docent, received her MFA in poetry (2009 Pacific University, OR). Since 2008, she has been leading workshops on art and word, and moderates weekly sessions to help people to be more attentive and appreciative readers of good poems. At Rundel, come to Poetry Oasis for discussion of good poems every Thursday at noon.
Latest book: Sum:1 March 2021, http://www.foothillspublishing.com/2021/jospe.html
RUNDELANIA 