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Sight Map
Poems
Teare, Brian.
Sight map : poems / Brian Teare.
p. cm. — (New California Poetry ; 26)
isbn 978-0-520-25875-4 (cloth : alk. paper)
isbn 978-0-520-25876-1 (pbk. : alk. paper)
I. Title.
PS3620.E427S55 2009
811'.6—dc22 2008021098
18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 09
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
But where is the bridge placed—at the end of the road, or only at the end of our vision?
Is it all bridge, or is there no bridge because there is no gulf?
charles ives, Essays before a Sonata
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Contents
40:57:54 n / 76:54:35 w
Emerson Susquehanna 3
To Be Two 10
Lent Prayer 16
As If from Letters of Surveyor Samuel Maclay 19
To Take the House Out of Doors 24
42:53:6 n / 71:57:17 w
Embodiment 29
Morphology 30
Theory of Trees 38
Spirit Photograph 40
The Word from His Mouth, It Is Perfect 42
Long after Hopkins 44
pilgrim
The ravine a canoe, 49
Errant. 50
A type of spine. 51
Ash, birch, beech, pine. 52
Errant : Reply. 53
As being is to begin. 54
West to dust. 55
To drag about, to torment, to wallow, 56
Devotion, 57
37:48:9 n / 122:15:4 w
Sanctuary, Its Root Sanctus 61
Thoreau Etude 67
Genius Loci 69
Abandoned Palinode for the Twenty Suitors of June 76
An Essay to End Pleasure 80
Notes 83
Acknowledgments 85
40 : 5 7 : 54 n
7 6 : 5 4: 3 5 w
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Emerson Susquehanna
locked in a long walk through the chill of a single word, and there’s cattails
fraught where water’s not
any longer, and God ’s a pall called down to mind the meaning
given a life. Once thought
3
a migraine in its wake, word endured alone in a room. Shades
drawn over pain, word’s
a mind’s light ingrown, caught, nitid knot snarled upon
itself . . . Subzero, months
4
ii. & ceased from our God of rhetoric
lunettes; synthetic
silk crest stitched
to a white head;
small gears completely
grease preening
ash, mechanical
sheen of oil,
charcoal—only
squanders territory.
What use is it
to see? Faith
the world is knowable?
5
There are ways
to understand
or stutter.
If I send a letter
than speech)
when I don’t
know to love
language other
than to run
a larceny
6
impostor I am
then, my words
a mere guess at
what isn’t. It isn’t
other terms
than my own
without names
fly anyway
ceaselessly
up the ladder
it only seems
there’s a way
7
iii. then may God fire . . . with . . . presence.”
8
so little shadow was left
like a sentence revised too often.
What happens is the mind
travels outward
because it wants to be the soul it has heard tell of.
Nervous work
like a bird—sky and power line, garbage can, underbrush—
it goes to them;
it intends itself toward oily black seeds
toward reflections
in ice and in glass
and it goes to the wind
and is shut out
which is no one’s home.
Ever leave-taking,
action is its only description :
each shadow on the lamp-lit street
seeming to rush—molting out of itself—
each upward
to snow—
multitude of hurry, confusion—midair
to meet the idea that made it—
9
To Be Two
i. Certainty
10
is [ ] walking [ ] the river [ ]
[ ] falls inside it, [ ]. Ice
is a skin that can’t bear touching and weather
deeper than feeling : [ ].
I don’t own any farther than guessing what
I have recorded : what’s called emotion, or [
], a form of a failing of certainty. The world
is [ ] thinking. I remember the veil,
the sum of uncertainty. “I once knew”
isn’t sentimental; it’s eaves, ice. What I know
glitters in error’s margins [ ]
and descends intently. “Touching you
I know I [ ] you,” you [ ]. What you said
like snow holds my footprints : I will watch [
] where I’ve been to disappear—
11
ii. The love poem
12
: isn’t speaking this.
: can’t write itself, though.
: shifts and clicks.
: is an error.
: can’t speak in a form.
: is more accurate.
: is called intellect.
: is what I confuse with what
is torn, but not sundered.
: isn’t a lie, and it
is split like everything
is mica-fine in silence.
: is how.
: won’t be lost.
: falls for as long as . . .
: will walk again in thought.
13
iii. The Veil
Between two who love each other is a veil, thin as breath.
There is no room for doubt. Each breath freezes and holds what is
freezing : fixity is altogether every text, finds itself afraid
of falling further and has gone farther, is itself far more
alone than I had thought. Subtext, what is subject
is the fabric of estrangement : a veil marks the line
between what is and what I think. I.e. : I can say “The river slips shut,”
can say what I like, but what I read says the world is the totality of facts;
I ask the barometer falling, Fahrenheit as it swallows the known sum down,
charts the mercuric disappearing, what fact is the cause of distemper?
Will the water hold as I walk? Sleeping is the ear put in fear,
is thick arras or ambsace, like an alcatraz is an island of light
across water. “There was an error” is a statement of fact
I can’t bear. There are propositions I can’t touch, can’t
love with certainty and knowledge, both. Is the ability to know,
absolutely, in the dark, this hand that touches mine is mine,
thigh to thigh touches mine is mine, is it certain?
The memory of fucking is nothing if it can’t find you.
Please, believe again this notion of my voice; remember
what it is to touch me. I ask because this isn’t speaking; this
is a kind of walking to the river. A letter can’t write itself, though
a life can, and snow falls inside it, hissing. Ice shifts and clicks,
is a skin that can’t bear touching and weather is an error
deeper than feeling : I can’t live like this, can’t speak in a form
I don’t own any farther than guessing what is more accurate :
I have recorded what’s called emotion, or what is called intellect
is a form of a failing of certainty. The world is what I confuse with what
is called thinking. I remember. The veil is torn, but not sundered :
the sum of uncertainty. “I once knew” isn’t a lie, and it
isn’t sentimental; it’s eaves, ice. What I know is split like everything
glitters in error’s margins, like ambivalence is mica-fine in silence
and descends intently. “Touching you is how
I know I love you,” you said. What you said won’t be lost
like snow holds my footprints : I will watch what falls for as long as
it takes for where I’ve been to disappear—will walk again in thought.
15
Lent Prayer
16
But all the small-town lights have left
for the Susquehanna
where they lean over water and rinse long-
billed birds into shallows, cattails
that shiver
the river like quills
sunk in dark ink. If I bring
to the banks what nouns I’ve found,
what of it?
Clean of scene they shine
in the mind like fish flick water open, switchblade-
quick : weathervane
horse-cart milk-pail police-tape
farmhouse snowplow : if
I put them back, I’ll hate the tableaus
they make : cows
crapping in crabgrass; on Market Street
little flags flapping; or two Amish girls
pressing curd through cloth;
dirty water. It’s written :
the opera house burned
in 1906. What is it goes on living
17
in a town like this, between penitentiary and nicotine, the way form lives on
in both feign and fiction : arson
or accident, the plaque says this
is the original cornerstone : because
the root of error is wander
who wouldn’t want
out of a town so wrong? The current’s fed under the bridge
like fabric to a sewing needle, each light
a small satin boat
stitched slow in folds.
Who wouldn’t want to go
to them,
the lights? As prayer is
route to precarious, the river trembles on its treadle.
18
As If from Letters of Surveyor Samuel Maclay
(Spring, 1790)
19
my black nets set past cattails
dredge drawn up leaves
alluvium grasp and clatter
the world is
the river brims first the few
roads go
20
.
21
in consequence as I am in want
of word I imagine your letter corn
stubble troubling the flood fields
22
a season when the bank’s given the river
rising everything it had here I am
in country unsettled without either
23
To Take the House Out of Doors
24
a bed crowning the cherry;
his love is to take
the house out of doors.
Where will it go? One way
out of town, traveler.
No one sleeps on a bridge.
25
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42 : 5 3 : 6 n
7 1: 5 7 : 17 w
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Embodiment
(White Birch)
29
Morphology
(Field Guide to the Ferns)
i.
bent—leaflets
arced on an axis—your
mouth the ground
30
ii.
To remember
see : “Interrupted”—
his mouth—
“Smooth
Lip” or “Wooly”
31
iii.
“Netted Chain”
is an organic syntax. Is one
kind of sentence—
did he put
his fingers there?—
32
iv.
“Fragile”—rhizomic
spreading
beneath—you
lay down;
“Male”
fiddleheads
furred and pale—
33
v.
pinnate—
penetrate.
34
vi.
of anatomy”—see :
venation—how
there’s a language
describing
entirely :
35
vii.
36
viii.
37
Theory of Trees
( White Birch)
if narrow
if limbs
white, also
are given
skin cousin
to paper
must thought be
brought closer
be invested
mind clothed
wholly
in action : writing
my companion
color : my paper
dress : a warring
of time, garment
of spar spent
in rending
38
.
embodiment :
awful
beautiful : never-
lasting
is form
home if form
gives damage
39
Spirit Photograph
( White Birch)
40
not present at the creation
of longing. Tearing back the bark you made
there a fire to heat the sentence
until meaning relented, ash
41
The Word from His Mouth, It Is Perfect
it is said
God spoke to matter
during creation
what was asked of it
of such speech
is it longing
is the birch its shape
is it that of skin
vacant as the place he’d taken among fiddleheads
42
surely alone is the reliquary
hear me
my way alone
I bequeath to the compass
43
Long after Hopkins
44
is it only what’s visible that’s knowable.
Twenty dandelions gone to seed;
tent worms slung in the articulated
tree; what’s tiresome : mind
unanswered, writing to supply
scaffolds to hold up scenery, nothing
but queries and plywood, string
strung to a high struck bell auguring :
it’s too late to see a third turkey
left headless, wreck of feathers
the owl scared, scattered in grass—
45
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pil g rim
wind narrows its deep creek current through, carries the landscape
forward, into disappearance. Boulder to dust, keenness of no use or
latitude. The path follows far as the vanishing point. Wind’s edge, the
map ends here.
49
Errant.
Lost to document and topography, you ask : what logic have I followed,
is it mine, is there elsewhere I might go : but sleep is a kind of English :
constantly, no answer.
50
A type of spine.
From fetal to unfurl, ferns. Upturn, the path among boulders breaks its
fever of mosquitoes. The pond lists with pollen. At bank a tipped birch
soaks its silver sidelong in the water that holds what, goes where, and
nothing, nowhere are answers you’re ready for. Ripple. Midge. Gelid
nebulae of frogs’ eggs.
51
Ash, birch, beech, pine.
52
Errant : Reply.
You are here now infernal beneath the meadow’s far hem : do you want
it to go on, this life a screed of signs, this struggle under the slumber of
everything : you have tunneled this far : there is, isn’t there, a language
entirely wakeful, you ask : because all you left behind has dreamt of it
53
As being is to begin.
Laid down among the signs a self assigned. Decided it was only ever
upward unto nothing, grass and wildflowers, each stem the very thread
of trembling, as little weight as color on the eye. There was an order you
could choose to enter, another, in doing so, to leave. You were, as before
a river or tree decides to branch.
54
West to dust.
55
To drag about, to torment, to wallow,
roots of the sweet word I trammel : valka, he’s gone, fucking someone
else. Nothing goes by luck in composition, not in this city of four kinds
of sleep : ends, ended, will end, will have ended. Lake water poised at
the lip of spillage, each image trembles as it’s written.
56
Devotion,
57
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3 7 : 48: 9 n
12 2 : 15 : 4 w
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Sanctuary, Its Root Sanctus
(Lake Merritt)
61
is no lake at all, and the waves
no longer waves, the shoreless
shore, and the poem, the prayer
the impossibility of emptiness : being
fucked is a version of prayer : I desire
something
neither received nor seen. Even the lake
is an interpreter, the sky here
a sargasso of glass
here a hot ripple of tin, there
the pale pink pattern called mackerel, and birds
disturb interpretations
I in turn have interpreted. The lake
water ends with an i
in it, slip lisping
to lip, and, stalled, it sticks : there’s nothing I can do
about loneliness
except watch it flare, metaphor
in the landscape by the lake
I walk inside memory of him moving
62
inside me, and it is this fullness most resembles my
experience of God. What could have been waves
instead tick—walled, halted—against brick. And even the lake
is an interpreter, sky here a sargasso of glass
here a hot ripple of tin, there the pale
pink pattern called mackerel, and birds
disturb interpretations I in turn have interpreted.
The lake water ends with an i in it, slip
lisping to lip, and, stalled, it sticks. The walk home
begins as imagery that leaves everything out,
though an image becomes metaphor if
I choose : blue heron at the spill gate; wind’s
whitecaps; fog negating the clocktower; a man
in black, his back to me, rowing past buoys;
and it is this last image, slow slur over the surface
the neat wake the boat leaves, in which I invest
meaning. I try to keep it here—the lake and its
description—before it becomes metaphor,
63
the poem referring to water raising into significance
resemblance between the lake and metaphor.
I left him by underground, left the city
that stinks, rain coagulating crusts left
for pigeons, a lost dog’s lost flyers leeching red ink
into gutter water, junkie cursing her dead
mother, “Fuck you man, the bitch is dead,” left
her and her bedroll and her hands’ gnarl
of scars folded, doubled over. High sun banishing
clarity beneath a surface nova-ed white,
the lake interpreted is no lake at all, and the waves
no longer waves, the shoreless shore
and the poem, the prayer, the impossibility of emptiness
waiting at the gate, at the door, while walking
up the stairs toward his glance and nonchalance,
the unmade bed, while we argued and made
up, undressed and fucked and bed, stairs, door, gate
I was already gone :
64
the walk home began as imagery
that left everything out
though it’d become
metaphor
if I chose : blue heron at the spill gate; wind’s
whitecaps; fog
negating the clocktower; a man in black, his back
to me, rowing
past buoys; and it was this
last image, slow
slur over surface, neat wake
the boat left, in which I invested
meaning. I tried to keep it there—
the lake and its description—before it became metaphor, the poem
referring to water raising into significance resemblance
between the lake and metaphor.
When is it the mind turns
from perception? I left him
by underground, left the city
that stinks, rain coagulating crusts
left for pigeons, a lost dog’s lost flyers leeching red ink into gutter water, junkie
cursing her dead mother, “Fuck you
man, the bitch is dead,” left
65
her and her bedroll and her hands’
gnarl of scars
folded, doubled over. High
sun banishing clarity beneath a surface
nova-ed white, the lake interpreted
was no lake at all
and the waves no longer
waves, the shoreless
shore, and the poem
the prayer
the impossibility of emptiness : when
did I turn away, when
did I substitute the word prayer
for fucking, when
did he begin to leave? while I waited at the gate? at the door? while I walked
up the stairs toward his glance and nonchalance? the unmade bed?
while we argued
and made up, undressed and fucked?
and bed? stairs?
door?
gate? He was
already gone.
66
Thoreau Etude
(Lake Merritt)
Ghosts of commerce,
of loneliness, buildings
embark in the waves
of the lake in a wake
of lights where
insurance—its lit silver
insubstantial—
promises nothing
but neon
in triplicate : crest,
trough, fat signature
listless in flat-water.
What you thought
was promised
wasn’t. Downtown
flares, fulminous
acetylene
crash and ashen sky-
line asymptote : gull
wing and gasoline,
hunger cry and truck
67
bed : an economy
endless as bill
boards’ utopia
replicas : “the heavens
hang over them
like some low screen.”
68
Genius Loci
(Oakland)
Make it
the place
it was then,
so full it split
vision to live
there in winter
so late & wet
abundance
toppled toward
awful—birds
of paradise
a profusion
the ripe colors
of anodized
metal; in gutters
umbrellas
smashed
like pigeons,
bent ribs bright
among black
slack fluttering;
camellias’
pink imagoes
dropping
69
into water
& rotting,
sweet stink—
& did not
stop :
the inundated
eye, over-
populous
urban eye,
the whole
place, to look
at it, was
a footprint
in January :
everywhere
cloudy water
rising to fill in
the outlines,
& meanwhile
indoors differed
by degree
alone : without
love, loosed
from God,
70
there were
lovers & touch
rushing in
to redraw
your boundaries
constantly
because
it was a tune
you kept
getting wrong,
the refrain
of what it meant
to live alone,
months of that
and then
71
& condoms like everyone else on a hot, long afternoon
so long & hot it would just be sunburn to walk anywhere if it weren’t also
a pleasure, thoughtless & shiftless & horny & drunk,
just someone thinking summer wasn’t up to anything deep, & lo,
there he was, his punk ass pink as a Viking in a tight
wifebeater & lingering by the public pool, drinking beer so sly
it didn’t look illegal, & he wasn’t a good idea but
did you have a light? & it seemed the whole summer went like that,
taking fire out of your pocket & giving it away, a ditty
you could whistle it was so cliché, like the numbers they gave you after
& you never called, the number of swollen nodes of the kissing
colds you got & later the number to call to get tested, the number of the bus
to the clinic, the number they gave you when they asked
you to wait, the number of questions asked, number of partners, number
of risks, number of previous tests, the number of pricks
—one—to draw the blood, the number of minutes you waited before
results, & then you decided you had to get the tune right,
the how to live it so it doesn’t kill you, to take a number & wait in the long
line
of the city’s bankrupt humanism like the bus that never comes
no matter how long you wait, & the grocery bag breaking, & if you were going
to sing that one, the one that sounds like all I got is bruised
tomatoes, broken glass & dirty bread & no one waiting at home, would you
72
.
73
a small thing
shared, just
a phrase, not
a whole song,
but something
to build on?,
& if it isn’t bread
& if it sure
ain’t tomatoes
it isn’t empty,
is it, like the signage
you walk by
that fronts
the Lakeside
Church of Practical
Christianity,
hawking
a knowledge of God
so modest
it seems trivial?,
& it isn’t ever,
is it, the how
to live it
so it doesn’t
74
kill you,
the where
to touch it,
the when
will genius
sing your name
so it sounds
like a place
you can live?
75
Abandoned Palinode for the Twenty Suitors of June
(18th & Sanchez)
76
what promises, your image—not unlike
eucalyptus, gingko or bottlebrush, trees
without fruit that lined his street solely
for ornament and shade—was but shape
he’d pause beneath briefly, considering.
77
leave yourself uncoupled, untouched,
mouthing nouns all flowers—now round,
now sharp—bachelor’s buttons, mums,
agapanthus, protea, poppy, in order to
stop among certainties, imagery of pansy
78
as light tilted, slid summer-wise and cormorants
returned the span of their wings to hang black
over shining buoys, waves’ crests wind-snapped
like the slack in flags. Beside the lake
you paused, briefly, considered the shape
79
An Essay to End Pleasure
80
turns fog on a spindle : thread
to bind recent greenery to back-
ground : sewn woods wild
as backs of tapestries. The voice
grows archaic with noticing;
the mind, precise. A new kind
of bird feeds at the river : think
of weeks the eye will take
to count its feathers; years
the mouth will wait to drink
what small air from its bones—
and now, here, March turns fog
on a spindle :
what comes to the eye comes as light
after winter has washed
its white sand at least twice, as if ornament could adorn
the worn shore of the ordinary : goose shit on the lake path, a flotilla
of plastic bags in waters currents carry under the city. We come back
to this : as if inevitable, the sheathed cock;
as if necessary, the thighs part;
and the mind divided : his mouth here, then there
my hand : meanwhile the eternal internal
ache relaxed past pleasure stammer
81
stammer my mouth
apotheosis
precious. But it is all dear :
the thread that binds
recent greenery to background,
kisses tentative, pressing, each
to sustain a pattern, the sewn
woods wild
as backs of tapestries.
Watching the work of his pale skin
gather, gooseflesh
where my mouth just was : we are
as much as we see : the voice
full-throated with noticing; the mind
precise. How the mouth knows what the eye knows :
egret, heron, bittern,
grebe, gull, coot, cormorant,
scaup, mallard, but
friend, a new kind of bird
feeds at the lake : think of weeks the eye will take
to count its feathers; years
the mouth will wait
to drink what small air from its bones.
82
Notes
40:57:54 n / 76:54:35 w
“Emerson Susquehanna”: The title of each section is a portion of a sentence
taken from Emerson in His Journals, ed. Joel Porte (Harvard University Press,
1982).
“To Be Two”: The title is taken from a book of the same name by Luce
Irigaray (Routledge, 2001); the image of the veil between lovers is also hers.
A few phrases and some examples of language games concerning certainty
are taken directly from Ludwig Wittgenstein’s On Certainty (Harper & Row,
1972).
“As If from Letters of Surveyor Samuel Maclay”: The poem borrows directly
from Maclay’s Journal (Wennawoods, 1999), which he wrote while he was
surveying the west branch of the Susquehanna, near Lewisburg (which was
then Derrstown) in central Pennsylvania.
42:53:6 n / 71:57:17 w
The “white birch” series responds to Gennady Aygi’s poem “Birch at Noon,”
from Child-and-Rose (New Directions, 2003).
“Embodiment” responds to Brenda Hillman’s assertion, in “First Tractate”
from Death Tractates (Wesleyan University Press, 1992), that “The soul got to
choose. Nothing else / got to but the soul / got to choose.”
83
“Morphology” owes a tremendous debt to Boughton Cobb’s Field Guide to
the Ferns (Houghton Mifflin, 1956); the nouns or phrases in quotation marks
are actual names of ferns found during hikes in New Hampshire.
“Theory of Trees” is a phrase from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ 1865 journal in
A Hopkins Reader, ed. John Pick (Oxford University Press, 1953).
“Spirit Photograph” refers to the nineteenth-century practice of attempting
to capture, via photograph, evidence of ghosts, such as ectoplasm or the
possession of mediums during séances. It’s dedicated to Laura Larson.
“The Word from His Mouth, It Is Perfect” refers to the Gnostic creation
myth that it was in fact the speech of God that formed matter. The title is
taken from a Manichean hymn in Barnstone and Meyer’s The Gnostic Bible
(Shambhala, 2003).
The opening of “Long after Hopkins” ghosts the opening of Jorie Graham’s
“Imperialism” in The End of Beauty (Ecco, 1987).
37:48:9 n / 122:15:4 w
“Thoreau Etude”: The final three lines are from Thoreau’s A Writer’s
Journal, ed. Laurence Stapleton (Heinemann, 1961).
“Abandoned Palinode for the Twenty Suitors of June” quotes graffiti at
the corner of 18th and Sanchez (in the Castro of San Francisco) and was
triggered by the legend of Stesichoros’ palinode, as recounted by Anne Carson
in Autobiography of Red (Knopf, 1998). Also: the phrase “an image is the
stop between uncertainties” is taken from Djuna Barnes’ Nightwood (New
Directions, 1961).
“An Essay to End Pleasure”: Again, some phrases are from Thoreau’s
A Writer’s Journal.
84
Acknowledgments
“The Word from His Mouth, It Is Perfect” was reprinted in The Gertrude Stein
Awards (Green Integer, 2008). Many thanks to Douglas Messerli for selecting
the poem for inclusion.
Gratitude to Jeff Maser, and especially to Jason Davis at palOmine Press, for a
limited edition chapbook, Pilgrim, in which all the poems of that section first
appeared.
Further gratitude to the editors of the New California Poetry series and the
staff at University of California Press, most especially to Rachel Berchten and
85
Claudia Smelser, whose intelligences patiently and sensitively shepherded this
book into being.
There are many to whom I owe thanks for their direct support of and belief in
this work: Rick Barot, Gaby Calvocoressi, Joshua Corey, Susanne Dyckman,
Cynthia Hogue, Laura Larson, Jane Mead, G. E. Patterson, D. A. Powell,
Jaime Robles, Margaret Ronda, Reginald Shepherd, and Jean Valentine.
& there are two whose editorial suggestions concerning this manuscript were
irreplaceable: Elizabeth Robinson and Kerri Webster.
But the largest debt of gratitude goes to the Stadler Center for Poetry at
Bucknell University, the MacDowell Colony, and the National Endowment
for the Arts, without whose generosities this book would never have been
written.
86
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