Delusions of an erasure poet: the shadow text

This entry is part 1 of 4 in the series Delusions of an Erasure Poet

 

There is — I’ve come to feel — a text within the text, made up of the words and phrases that lodge most firmly in our minds as we read and the hidden relationships we sense between them. Can it be brought into the light and given at least a minimal coherence? If so, what if anything might it tell us about the parent text?

I think this shadow text is based in part on semi-conscious, momentary misinterpretations which we are continually correcting automatically as we read. It’s of a piece with those false ideas and associations we all harbor based on misunderstandings that were subsequently corrected, sometimes very quickly, but still too late to prevent such shadow ideas from persisting, showing up in dreams and sometimes even influencing conscious thoughts. (This is, in part, how propaganda works.)

If I were able to read with perfect focus, perhaps a shadow text would not develop, but the imagination is an unruly beast, and fluent reading gives it latitude to stray to one side or another as I proceed, like a dog on a long leash inspecting things of interest while its owner plods straight ahead. It has, in other words, its own agenda. To recover the text within a text, do we not also need to be dog-like and follow our ears and noses more than our eyes? Certainly we need to be more active. Investigation may even require that we bark and listen for a response.

Remnants

She used to keep a tall cabinet with glass doors,
filled with special occasion dresses. Most of them,
she sewed herself. From her I learned bateau and
keyhole neckline, peplum, organdy, linen, voile

The treadle conveyed the body’s weight, the energy
of the motor to the hand wheel and the presser foot.
The bobbin winder and the spool fed stitches
through the needle plate. Childhoods were made

of buttonholes cut through cloth and edged
by hand, one patient stitch at a time.
Deaths were panels of black, month after month
for a year. White, black, charcoal, grey,

then the range of hues between. Feelings
thick as paint, matte and glossy. Low
ceilings across which the light flickered
tungsten yellow as if through old lace,

gray anvil of days on which the tedium of monsoon
months is hammered. I cannot throw away the smallest
bit of good muslin or truthful strip of leather,
each scrap wanting only to be loved and used again—

 

In response to small stone (198).

Hearts

This entry is part 10 of 29 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2012-13

 

“…In their solitude and beauty,
flowers say, ‘I have sacrificed myself for you.'”

~ Eugene Gloria

Many hearts are buried
in every field: flower
hearts, thorn hearts,

bone hearts, knuckle
and finger hearts;
veins of spittle

and scum and bottle
shards, bits of barbed
wire looped

at intervals
like ribbons— hearts
of the dead or

disappeared who gave
their lives to hope
and work, who even now

write letters legible
through hardened
ground—

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Emptying

Listening to stories of mendicants traveling from place to place with nothing but a begging bowl, I envy the bowl. The bowl has better perfected detachment, indifferent to whether it might be filled with water or food or dust. I am not there yet. I envy the tree that gave shade, the cobra that levered its flaps like a leathered umbrella opened against the rain. At twilight, as the sun makes its exit over the hills, I envy the wider sash of indigo eclipsing the gold. When night settles over the fields and the last late truck bearing its cargo of lumber or stone crosses the bridge, I envy the errant wind that sends a fig or chestnut tumbling to the ground. I envy the riddle about the sea and the sleeping mat rolled up in the room, for the sureness of what they know of transformation. I envy the lemon tree that knows to grow quiet beside the shed, its white buds smaller and more luminous than the blisters on the back of a heel chafed by the edge of a shoe. And the bird in its branches, I envy that bird though I do not know its name before it arrives— the one whose beak and cry will be the first to pierce the silence of dawn.

 

In response to Morning Porch and small stone (197).

Kenosis

Mid-January, & the bear
who hasn’t had
a meal in two
months, & won’t for
another three, half-
wakes to chew
sticks into soft
chips—bedding
for the cubs who
will soon be born
& squall
& nurse.
She may leave the den
to eat snow or merely
dream of it.
Her heart beats
eight times a minute.
But from the fastness
of her dark
unhungering body
milk will flow.


I’m indebted to a blog post from the North American Bear Center, “Lily Makes Bedding,” for the detail about chewing sticks — which sounds as if it was new discovery for the researchers. (The bear in the poem is on more of a Pennsylvania hibernating schedule, however.)