September 04, 2008


Are teapots art
if sufficiently awkward

or plates
with a poisonous glaze?

I keep dreaming of making things that might, like the beveled
edge of a mirror, compound value:

method antinomic, attitude questioning
result, still sometimes birdshit-

in such dreams I am always responsible
for the distance between burnt umber and brown

the roots concealing themselves
in the pilled wool of my pullover

my eyes a soldered bridge
mute before the questions, what's it for?

how long will it last- if irony's passÚ
shall we bring on beauty, the kind that has absorbed its opposite?

If not why not hovers over
virtuoso, tour de force & trompe l'oeil

but who can know the depth of even one's own heart-
access is guarded by a hard flame.

My ever-breaking promise of bliss:

If it holds water, is it art?

No matter how the poplars hold back the hill
as straight as any trees could be

they sway, as a mountain can appear the only one
or a link in a colossal chain.

One writes in a trance, the other applies Teutonic discipline:

shouldn't it look easy?

Let's varnish usefulness for long duty-
Christmas in the tropics-let's festinate
the yellow daisies into bloom, so icy in their blown glass-

—Natasha SajÚ
from Bend (Tupelo Press, 2004)

Posted by dwaber at September 4, 2008 04:02 PM