Thought Trafficking


Fairisle
October 31, 2009, 8:52 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

It is Hallowe’en, and the season has almost succeeded in knocking most of the leaves off of the trees. All save a few, like the cherry tree in our backyard. Every gust of wind brings  a flock of leaves over the roof and down like diving swallows, the same arc.

On this last day of October, I will tell you that I have this cousin, and this cousin of mine is pretty fantastic. I say this blind but savante, because though I can’t remember having met him, I read him. I want to show you this. I hope he will not mind.

“The Body October”

October is a transition zone moving over

the valley corridor. The roadway,

lit by trees as they shed their skin, is still.

 

Factory air leans for it cannot leave the ground :

strange herald to the marriage of orange and grey.

October winds in the cool light, lifting the clouds

 

from the shelf, showing no rain, or rain defined

as a crystal lattice, observable in the sound of it

on October nights. This is the beginning of the year

 

in palindrome, a hinge in the present opening

all of us to a list of years, taking from then to now

and translating it perfectly. Like placing a ruler

 

against everything, the measure in the hands

of the silent draftsman. Its sky drawn in

as granite flecked with a month of migration.

– Michael deBeyer

His first book of poetry found me through an uncle in Maastricht, where Dad and I were staying in July, 2004. I had finished all of the books that I had space to bring, and so, in the ridiculously large room allotted me, I read whatever Cees could lend me under the scratchy wool blankets there. One night, there was the most fantastic thunderstorm. It left everything soaked and spongy for days afterward, it sounded as though it could easily cleave the sandstone hills of that area into pieces.

I am making post-writing resolutions right now: learn to quilt; learn to crochet; learn to sew; get Kindermusik certification; take more Spanish lessons? Or maybe another language?; get to know the people in my office better; finish Battlestar Galactica; go lots of places; apply for the next degree; grade 10 piano? or just more lessons; play music with other people; get better at explaining myself.

I am holding off on writing about the performance that I witnessed (I think witness is a good word here; I am too ambivalent about it to say that we merely “observed”) on Thursday night, but want to write a few more “real” pages before I do.

My sister once offered snacks to one of her friends asking if she wanted “homemade bread” (bread that I had baked) or “real bread.” So what is this “real” writing, anyways? The writing that has quantifiable worth, according to the credits that I pay for, I think.

Here is more from Michael, for those curious: one, two, three. The last link should be to the book from which the above poem is taken, Change in a Razor-Backed Season.

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1 Comment so far
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Amazing – kinda cool issue. I am goin to write about it too!!

Comment by Tushhellads




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