| Poem for Saturday |
[Feb. 21st, 2004|10:52 am] |
Sunrise, Grand Canyon
By John Barton
We stand on the edge, the fall
into depth, the ascent
of light revelatory, the canyon walls moving
up out of
shadow, lit
colours of the layers cutting
down through darkness, sunrise as it
passes a
precipitate of the river, its burnt tangerine
flare brief, jagged
bleeding above the far rim for a split
second I have imagined
you here with me, watching day's onslaught
standing in your bones--they seem
implied in the record almost
by chance--fossil remains held
in abundance in the walls, exposed
by freeze and thaw, beautiful like a theory
stating who we are
is carried forward by the X
chromosome down the matrilineal line
recessive and riverine, you like
me aberrant and bittersweet, and losing
your hair just when we have begun
to know the limits of beauty, you so
distant from me now but at ease
in a chair in your kitchen, pensive, mind
wandering away from yesterday's Times, the ink
rubbing off on your hands, dermatoglyphic
and telltale, but unread
on the chair arms after you
had pushed yourself to your feet such
awhile ago, I'd say, for here I am
three hours behind you, riding the high
Colorado Plateau as the opposing
continental plates force it over
a mile upward without buckling, smooth
tensed, muscular fundament, your bones yet
to be wrapped around mine--
this will come later, when I return
to your place and time, I know it, you not
ready for past or future, our combined
bones so inconsequent yet
personal, the geo
logic cross
section of the canyon dropping
from where I stand, hundreds
millions of shades of terra cotta, of copper
manganese and rust, the many varieties of stone--
silt, sand, and slate, even "green
river rock," a rough misidentified
fragment of it once unknowingly
dropped when I was a boy into my as of yet un
settled sediments by a man who tried
to explain how slowly the Earth meta
morphosed from my meagre
Wolf Cub's collection of rocks, his sheer
casual physicality enough to negate
all received wisdom, my body voicing its immense
genetic imperatives, human
geology falling away
into a
depth I am still unprepared for
the canyon cutting down to
the great unconformity, a layer
so named by the lack
of any fossil evidence to hypothesize
about and date such
a remote time by, at last no possible
retrospective certainties, what a
relief, your face illegible
these words when I began not what I had
intended to say--something new about
the natural dynamic between
earth and history, beauty and art--
but you are my subject, unavoidable
and volatile, the canyon
floor a mile from where I objectively
stand taking photos I will later develop of
the ripe, trans
formative light on these surreal
buttes to show you on the surface
how beautiful and diverse
and unimportant our time together
or with anyone else
really is--
Seemed to call for a photo, though what matters in this poem is the unseen and unseeable, or perhaps more to the point, the unspeakable ("your face illegible/these words when I began not what I had/intended to say").
Fucking court-packing fucktard. That's all I have to say about politics this morning. Oh, and I would like to announce that this journal will be Passion of the Christ-free unless someone shows me an illegal bootleg of the film, because while I am curious enough to want to see it, so that I can form my own opinion, I am not curious enough to give my money to the people who financed the film.
Should go work a bit, as my husband has to be in the office till two today which sucks (and he graciously volunteered to take our younger son to his 8 a.m. basketball game beforehand -- what seven-year-old needs to play basketball at 8 a.m.?!) It's gorgeous out, though, and I am determined to see the river. |
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