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Unread 11-18-2019, 05:50 AM
Aaron Novick Aaron Novick is offline
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Default another seven by seven

wheat text

Scene (1)

The kind of warm spring day you cannot help
But forget, even though it's mid-October
And all the robins have been replaced by geese.
You'll get to the bottom of this—if, that is,
It bottoms out, though it may simply slide
Through your fingers, as such things are wont to do.
Notice, though, there's one thing missing—where is it?

You've heard that Time proceeds in fits and starts
Too rapid for vision to disentangle. Where
You encountered such an outlandish hypothesis,
Even when it is you're having this thought,
Is untraceable, like a single caw from a tree
Brimming with crows, but don't, for that, stop thinking it.
Sometimes, it even gets all jumbled up.

It's winter now: you watch your breathe dissolve
Into the fog that's standing at attention,
Column after column on the ice.
But why did I insert this here? Having
Been made, I flee. As you follow, you feel
Yourself disintegrating, particle
By particle. With you goes the cold.

The pond-water is turbid: it gives you back
Your scrunched-up face in blotchy sepia,
Disfigured by the breeze. Below the image,
All the dust this mirror has gathered has sunk
And become mud in which a startled tadpole
Wriggles. There's something there, if only you
Could make it out. Squint. But that's enough.

It's beginning to get clamorous in here,
More and more confused by the second. You
Were promised Time would be an arrow, but now
It's piling up—must be an accident
Somewhere ahead, or possibly road work,
And cars are starting to hightail it out of there.
You can hear them turning above you, on the bridge.

It's me again, this time come not to mock
But to be of genuine help, if I can.
At least, it sounds like me. It's difficult
To be certain when all you've got to go on is
The memory of how I sounded then.
It's rather unreliable. Possibly
I'm just the wind, gamboling through cattails.

So it seems that nothing binds this. You have ransacked,
With commendable diligence, empty space.
Turn your attention, even for a moment:
All this will vanish. Overhead, the geese
Pivot, come splashing down into the pond.
A few frames later, the day disperses, having
Been filed either away or to a point.
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Unread 11-19-2019, 07:09 PM
Phil Bulman Phil Bulman is offline
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Join Date: Oct 2019
Location: Maryland, USA
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Nice meandering through time and space.
Loved some of the unique images here: watch your breath dissolve; disfigured by the breeze; and ransacked, with commendable diligence.
And this may be the first time I've seen the word gamboling used outside of Scripture.
S7,L6 - a few frames later. This seemed out of place to me, taking me into photography or film. Maybe that's what you intended, but I found it jarring.
Thanks for sharing this.
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  #3  
Unread 11-20-2019, 09:59 AM
Aaron Novick Aaron Novick is offline
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Thanks, Phil—I'm glad you like this.

You're reading "a few frames later" as I intended. I did hope to foreshadow it in various ways (calling the poem "Scene"; having each stanza function like a new "frame" itself; S2L1-L2 describing Time as discontinuous but too fast for vision to see that discontinuity), but I take the point that this signaling didn't come through. We'll see if it causes others problems as well.
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