 A Kind of Meadow
—shored by trees at its far ending, as is the way in moral tales: whether trees as trees actually, for their shadow and what inside of it hides, threatens, calls to; or as ever-wavering conscience, cloaked now, and called Chorus; or, between these, whatever falls upon the rippling and measurable, but none to measure it, thin fabric of this stands for. A kind of meadow, and then trees—many, assembled, a wood therefore. Through the wood the worn path, emblematic of Much Trespass: Halt. Who goes there? A kind of meadow, where it ends begin trees, from whose twinning of late light and the already underway darkness you were expecting perhaps the stag to step forward, to make of its twelve-pointed antlers the branching foreground to a backdrop all branches; or you wanted the usual bird to break cover at that angle at which wings catch entirely what light’s left, so that for once the bird isn’t miracle at all, but the simplicity of patience and a good hand assembling: first the thin bones, now in careful rows the feathers, like fretwork, now the brush, for the laying-on of sheen.... As is always the way, you tell yourself, in poems—Yes, always, until you have gone there, and gone there, “into the field,” vowing Only until there’s nothing more I want--thinking it, wrongly, a thing attainable, any real end to wanting, and that it is close, and that it is likely, how will you not this time catch hold of it: flashing, flesh at once lit and lightless, a way out, the one dappled way, back-- CARL PHILLIPS
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November 2020
Heather Allison-Fine art photographer with a background in photojournalism, commercial photography, and art history. - Still life images inspired by nature, life, death, light, and oddities. |
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