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Graham Lindsayonline works |
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Residence in silence The wind crosses the plain bending the grass which gleams. The wind reaches the city on the coast, hurdles corrugated-iron fences, trapezoidal decramastic roofs, grates itself on summitstone walls. No ideas but in the silence of things. We are dumbfounded by our speech — alive to language dead to the world. The literature mooted was not some jerk-off nationalism but a homecoming to things. And of course the word is an eye hence clarity. Matter awoke began to be aware of itself to struggle to name feeling. We are matter articulated articulate matter. Small wonder we want to celebrate and give voice to our kin resident in the silence we left behind. Who bore us up as the small fountains of the raindrops are borne on the face of the waters. As the man said seeing comes before writing. Seeing, as another poet put it is the simple intuition of existence of one's own existence of the existence of things which doesn't occur in words but springs into the mind. You find yourself trying to fit words to the model in mind. The wind floods across the plain combing the grass which gleams sun and blue sky in its hair and dances round a clothesline as though each blade were a child the clothesline a maypole.
© Graham Lindsay |
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