by Jan Zwicky
Bones, my thanks
for your support,
your efforts to convince the world
that I can stand up for myself.
Thanks for your patience,
and for being home to certainties,
though they are often sad.
For beauty more than
skin deep; for the cheekbone and the pelvis;
for the beauty of horses, thank you.
Also for my love of moonlight,
the dream-case of the skull,
for being moonlight in me,
minarets and tendon-spindles,
labyrinth of the internal ear.
Thank you, especially, for music,
And for the legbone and the thighbone,
for the elegant contraptions,
of the wrist and knee, those nuts
and bolts of movement and the root
of how we mean.
Thanks for the orange crate
for my innards, hoop ladder
of the breath, and the reminder
that dying, like everything else,
believes in busyness
and spring, but you
are winter to us,
My thanks, white sister,
flowering of rock.
A Hike in Autumn We simply wanted to go up And come down that hill. Part geography, Part philosophy – the leaving and returning.
Carole Glasser Langille
A Hike in Autumn
We simply wanted to go up
And come down that hill. Part geography,
Part philosophy – the leaving and returning.
The fingers of the left hand Thought is the right arm Breathe also The collarbone These are the elements,
String Practice by Jan Zwicky
are the chambers of the heart.
The thumb is character.
The heart alone
is voiceless. By itself, it knows
but cannot think, and so
it cannot close the door to fear.
and it moves like breath.
The fingers of the right hand
are thought’s tendons, which,
with practice, will take root along
the bone of breath. Breathe
from the shoulder. It is thought
that pulls the bright gut of the heart
from the knees, which tune
the ear to earth, its turning,
and the double-handed movement
of the day and night.
If the knees are locked
the mind is deaf:
it fills the house with clamour, then,
but never music.
is the lintel of the voice,
and the breastbone
bears its weight.
In their house, the heart lives
and the breath that is not bone
until thought touches it.
which is to say,
When we lack experience,
it is the motions of the heart
that most perplex us.
But of all these things
thought is the hardest,
though its beauty is a distant river
in its plain of light.
The fingers of the left hand
Thought is the right arm
These are the elements,
If you’ve never eaten while crying you don’t know what life tastes like.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Visible and mobile, my body is a thing among things; it’s caught in the fabric of the world, and its cohesion is that of a thing. But, because it moves itself and sees, it holds things in a circle around itself. We must therefore rediscover, after the natural world, the social world, not as an object or sum of objects, but as a permanent field or dimension of existence.
Maurice Merleau-Ponty (via bemusedbibliophile)