Stasis

 

 

 

I read a very enlightening article over at the poetry foundation called "Floating". It's an interview with Louise Gluck about her view of writing and the periods in-between. She called the time between her books an initial period of exhilarated fatigue that eventually leads , from extended blankness, to the dreaded emptiness. But that first release from the grind of composing, editing and collating, from the pressure and expectation of finishing something truly great, is a time of cherished privacy. It engenders a euphoria that begs to be prolonged. The individual wants to cling to the finished work, stand back and relish its remark ability along with absorbing the other wonders of "quiet". In a way, this process is also a labor of adjustment and acceptance.  It's about becoming part of the stasis and allowing those blank spaces, the open air and the mood of  languor to own the individual self, to let it overwhelm (momentarily) and even liberate.





                  Stasis

 

Between books,  I first unwind

from the ways of writer and muse. The loose skein

of languor is wind-blown and wanton

but goes no where. It clings to corners of  the garden

like breath slipped out -- in awe

of what has been done. What simply surrounds.

 

I'm that sparrow

landing on the  spigot.  Just there

to tilt  my slight head

but not turn the water on,

 

or the cabbage white

in the briar fussing

over which flowers have a sweeter scent --

 

but not there to pluck

the dull petal or leaf.

 

And you may ask, as my voice hangs

wisped and suspended

along  the lawn, if I'm dying

(piecemeal) from lack of work.

 

And I would tell you

the rabble of broom, cloth and brush

will soon inherit my hand

 

(the chores ever present)

 

but while my pen lies idle

on that blotter,  I'm in the labor

of de - composing.

 

Floating wide and  silken,

summoned free.

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The beautiful artwork is by artist, Annie French, "The Bride".