A poem by Van K. Brock

Notes

I am trying to understand why the plain unstained
wood squares in the ceiling satisfy me. The rhythm
in the repetitions of the same balanced proportions,
or the resistance of the wild grain of the wood
to the squares and rectangles, the dense bloodknots
of the pines in bright summer when light at last can
open the recesses of the dark pitched ceilings: all
remind me of those northern timber structures
where the weary scribe looks up now again through me
and finds the forest's tangles in the grain of his plain
unstained coffers and understands, or thinks he does.

How vain to try to give my eyes to his medieval eyes,
or open to his vision of the world. There is a vast field
of sunflowers far below the balcony of Albergo Italia.
Swallows circle around me. In a half medieval town,
halfway up the mountain, we are only halfway to heaven,
a medieval monastery of southern stone above us,
sensuous sunflowers below. I like standing on a tiled
piazza in the air between sunflowers and monastic
rock. I do not want to endlessly circle and soar in the
air between, nor bow with the thousands who bow
nor go blind among the sunflowers' fertile eyes.

One must become vapor or dust, for every atom
to disperse in space, then come together again
recombined and reconciled with the dust of those
whose openings exclude you or at least do not include you.
Listen to the paradox of becoming: it is chanted
from the minarets, interrupting our meditation: nothing
tells us that whatever brings us together requires our
passage through ports never before gone through,
and through which we cannot even think of returning.
I could explode into a galaxy of galaxies,
ever expanding outward and curving back into myself.

Van K.Brock

Van K. Brock is a poet to cherish - and read! - for his sense (wisdom) and skill in bringing the secrets of our time to us without spoiling the mystery. These lightered poems give brief strong light to family tragedies, evidence of ancient, too-present crime. And there are folktunes here, much music in the words for dancing, the washing screaming to be hung "in the sun like saved sinners." -- Michael Mott