Flowering Crab

Scarlet unopened, the buds of flowering crab

bleach out in sunlight, go pale pink and drab.

After the third day, the wind loosens the petals,

and one flutters to the grass and settles.

It works its way down to the soil—

wind and water rub it thin as foil.

Then, between each cell, oxygen convenes,

until the petal of itself is rendered clean.

It dissolves into pattern everywhere;

if grown again to petal it won’t know or care.

Abstraction, Sonnet #624

The sound of time is the sound of light,
So the morning sun would seem to say;
But now, when it’s either soon or late,
Is silent, dark, when any shade of gray.
Infancy (now in its shroud of amnesia)
Saw a thing as it was there to hear
With ecstatic nerves of synesthesia,
Or like a planet without an atmosphere,
Naked to the bombardment of the stars,
Spun from space. That memory, stored
In our synapses, fights a prolonged war
To glimpse what our mind has barred;
A light the color and the sound of time
We know is not a product of the mind.

Song of the Telegraph (Charles Burchfield), Sonnet #623

I’ve always seen the world as quivering,

Motes in my eyes, random as Brownian

Motion, more than sight, but delivering

What has been awaited for an eon.

Even rocks I find on Michigan shores,

Which crowd memorabilia on my desk,

Tremble in the dimness the light abhors.

(Rocks have too many answers, so don’t ask.)

Living things are a different matter:

Trees, cats and birds shudder even when still,

And when they move they pretend to shatter

Within a blinked tear that’s started to rill.

What’s not dead is my electricity,

Motion grounding my own haecceity.

Note: haecceity (hakˈsēədē/) means “the property of being a unique and individual thing”

Horizon, Zenith and Atmosphere (Paul Klee), Sonnet #622

I see that cold red dot

At the center of all,

As I stand, myself a spot

Not round, not flat, not tall,

No more than open eyes —

No zenith on horizons,

Just air as thick as sighs

Repeat seeking orisons.

The red dot draws on will

Until I disappear

With nothing to fulfill,

Nothing to find or fear.

At the center of pressure

I can’t take its measure.

Rose In A Tumbler (Mondrian)

A powder blue flower —

a rose in a short glass,
a seer's whiskey sour,
nature without surface.

A drawing to surpass
reality, it grows,
it seems, to embarrass
red and white roses.

We know the artist’s known
a multiplying power — 
the rose blooming unblown —

an immortal flower.

The Argument from Design

 The religious impulse, it seems to me, is more about seeking than finding. There’s no greater composer devoted to this search than Gustav Mahler. The most memorable concert I ever attended was when my mother was dying of cancer and Alzheimer’s. 

The Berlin Philharmonic and Claudio Abbado were performing Mahler’s 9^th Symphony, a work full of searching, sadness, desperation, resolution, and redemption. At the end of the performance, Abbado did something I’ve never seen a conductor do before, nor since. After the last note, he kept his arms up, pausing everything, the room entirely quiet, for the longest time. He waited and waited, and waited. No one made a sound. It was as though he was saying, “Consider what you have just heard, the sorrow, the wonder, and the searching in this music, and do not despair.” It was a terrifying and joyful moment, and when he finally put his arms down, followed by the loudest applause I’ve ever heard.

There is only one tree in the park.

Not this day only, but every day,

I find that tree when the day grows dark,

Never before dark, when the gray

Leaves are like a whispered amen

To a prayer I wasn’t there to say.

Therefore, I’m cautious and slow when

I start to climb (I believe the tree

Is not unknown to other men);

I test each limb before I leave the

One beneath, without assurance

Any but the lowest will receive me.

Then my doubt subsides where I chance

Upon a tangled branch, ripped free

The time I almost lost my balance.

Now I can move quickly up the tree,

Into its clotted heart, where the dark

Yields, to my callused fingers only,

The life of the one tree in the park.

Composition

At the point of the intersection

between the theoretical line

and point, there’s a dimension,

not of space, nor of time

(those have been imagined

more thoroughly than I’m

imagined by myself), but of sin.

Not the brand to trouble God,

this sin is words that begin

without being misunderstood

(because the speaker winks!)

and conclude that bad is good.

I think the pine trees think

in theorems, plane geometry;

their sap is magnetic ink,

and the splash of red I see

in rose, cardinal and Mars

is blood escaped from my body . . . 

as if I had come from a star

to civilize this wilderness.

The beach is the registrar

of every grain of sand.  Mass

is energy’s conscience

and confessor.  The soul is a gas.

Yet, right angles, in defiance

of the circle’s perfection,

assume the world, and science

escapes reality’s detection.