Iron Mountain. Mark Frutkin. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Mark Frutkin
Издательство: Ingram
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Жанр произведения: Поэзия
Год издания: 0
isbn: 9781770706262
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       Early Winter Light

       Anatomy Lesson

       Night Rain in Summer

       Nymphalidae

       First Snow of Silence

       Tablecloth

       A Bird of Three Syllables

       To Quench Our Thirst for Stories

       Cigar Box

       On Reading Submissions to a Poetry Magazine

       Crackle-Glaze

       The Space Between Two Words

       Listening

       Old Bones Juggles Three Skulls

       When You Will Be a Mountain

       Skull

       Lombardy Poplars

       Old Bones

       Once a Great Ruler, This Spider

       No One Will Be Counting

       Albert

       Wilderness

       Creation Myths

       Nine Haiku

       Reinventing the World

       Wall

       Wilderness

      Some of the poems in this book were previously published (in several cases in slightly altered form) in the following anthologies and publications:

      Descant: “Prisoner,” “First Snow of Silence,” “Crackle-Glaze” The Fiddlehead: “Wall” The Free Verse Anthology: “Report on the End of Time” Indian Literature (India): “Early Winter Light” Intervox: “Deep Ecology Haiku” Poetry Canada Review: “Baudelaire’s Letter to Ancelle,” “Double,” “Degas in New Orleans,” “Creation Myths” Prism international: “Villa-Lobos Lugs His Cello Through the Amazon Jungle” Revista Española de Estudios Canadienses: “Thunder” Sealed in Struggle (anthology edited by N. Vulpe and M. Albari): “Death of a Poet” Six Ottawa Poets (anthology edited by S. Mayne): “Chinese Exhibition,” “Cigar Box,” “Lombardy Poplars,” “Old Bones,” “On Reading Submissions to a Poetry Magazine,” “Reinventing the World” White Wall Review: “Tintoretto” The Windhorse Review: “Fragments of Heaven and Earth,” “Euclid,” “Blue Sky,” “Horses in the Fetal Heart Rate,” “Once a Great Ruler, This Spider,” “Heart of Rust”

      Within the size of a fist can be assembled the beauty of a thousand cliffs…. The Sage (Confucius) once said, “the humane man loves mountains.” … Thus longevity through quietude is achieved through this love.

      —Kong Chuan,

      preface to Hermit of Cloudy Forest by Du Wan, 1133

       Iron Mountain

      The artist paints with a brush of horsehair

      drawn from the horse he is painting.

      Mountains and forests, ambiguous,

      their folds spontaneous and immeasurable.

      Ambiguous too the path

      threading through them

      like smoke

      rising from a mountain hut.

      At first it holds steady,

      a solid stream,

      then splays and shreds

      in a thousand branches.

      Why are we going to Shu? Remind me, the Emperor on his majestic horse questions his lieutenant.

      To see the goddess, the lieutenant replies. The Emperor turns his head, shakes the reins, and the single-file procession stutters on through birch forests.

      One day the weather is clear, the next, cloudy.

      As the painting unfolds, so do the mountains,

      so does the path through the mountains,

      and so does the line of men and horses

      on the path through the mountains.

      Not even the painter knows

      why they are going to Shu.

      Deep in the chaos of mountains

      the Emperor and his procession

      come to a wall.

      Like a snake

      or a flickering tail

      of lightning,

      the wall twists along

      mountain ridges

      until it disappears to the east

      until it disappears to the west.

      The peasants they ask do not know

      how far the wall goes

      but believe it must end

      two mountain chains beyond.

      But they have never walked that far,

      east or west.

      The Emperor and his procession

      follow the wall toward the setting sun

      until they can ride no farther

      and turn about.

      On arriving at their starting point

      they rest, then ride again

      toward the rising sun

      until they can ride no farther

      and turn about.

      When they have returned once again

      to their starting point,

      the Emperor is haunted

      by the belief that

      if he had kept on one day more

      in either direction

      he would have come to the wall’s end.

      His lieutenant watches him rise

      in his stirrups to gaze eastward,

      then turn to the west.

      His horse twists in a circle

      unsure which way to go.

      The Emperor sighs and waits

      and does nothing.

      The long procession of riders and horses

      waits too, in silence.

      He