Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Little House Book and a Poem


Japan

Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.




It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.



I walk through the house reciting it 
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.



I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.




I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening, 
then I hear it without saying it.




And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor 
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.




It's the one about the one-ton
temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,

and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth 
on the surface of the iron bell.
When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.



When I say it into the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.




And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,




and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.

Billie Collins, Sailing Alone Around the Room

2 comments:

  1. Irene,
    BEautiful poem here...I love your little house paintings, the house shape resonates deeply with me. I often use it as a form to house little paintings as well.

    x..x

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  2. Irene! This is stunning! You could post some of your many, many old journals. I loved looking at them in Orly's class and I know other folks would as well! They are sooo inspiring.

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