Fractyl Poem — Seeming, Appearance and Being
How the true was with world
Is sometimes bricked
Out with bangles,
Sound and sight both alike.
Put your paint this
Side, put it that
Side, we talk a lot, like
Talkers. And face
This way, blink, brush
Through lashes, powder on
Powders, a look
For, or about,
Female, they say, so too,
Some male, they say,
So too this or
Sewn to that. Or, some say
Wine is crossed best
In a vat, brains,
Birds, nests like glowed on
Dendrytic leaves,
A state, or a
Syntax, both one
And the same. Say
Most who say on
What is seen and what is
Thought, and what it
Is that being
Is, and yet can sometimes
Be not, and then
Become again.
Fractyl Poem: Be Nothing That Is, Not
Hello is good, morning,
Evening, night,
We say Good to.
How are you is peaceful
It brings glad and
Not angry thoughts.
We listen, we hear things
The conversing
Has its ears told.
Which is how televised
Religious yes
Religious no
Is brought to table and
Brought to lowly
So we know some.
Fractyl Poem: Fruit from the Tree
Growing earthward, not sky
Bound, or even
Thinking sky
With the hair of the branch
That thin — and more
Thinning still does,
To stretch and to store with
Storing done as women
Are known to store
Up skin and grain and cloth
To prune and ply
Some with as they
Needle a strand over
And under and
On across, in
Where the earth is bound with
The rock and the leaves
And the waters
That run about, surface
Ridden, sky phased,
But forgotten —
She is the gleaming on
Moon soft not I
Seeming as me.
Vase Painters
In the temple,
In finite,
Two opposites —
Th’pokeberry crushing
Cosmographer,
Feather a’tilt,
Shadow tossed.
Th’sea duct, eyebright
Singing Thinker
In sustained quiet
Waiting thought.
___
A candle burns,
N’the coarse clay wall;
He sniffs, paints worlds —
The philosopher’s
Eye emerged:
A blink, nearly
To word, almost
Alike.
He eyed, the map
Drawer, feed win
Whinnier,
Him, thought him,
Of him, on him,
Himness,
The thinker
Huffed at such, th’vase
Painter —
Brushing there the
Divinity
To a
Life t’live beneath
The palm that lifts
The grain,
The wine, barley,
Such th’things we store.
Thinking
Salty thoughts,
Wounded like some
Yester’
Great ache were born
Where thought, light leaned,
Said no
Thin, bird legg’ed,
Th’Philosopher
Pursed his
Lip, scoffed at such,
The near Sophist —
Painter! —
There like pulling
Her who the moon
Winks to,
Who th’wine pink sea
Roves at, n’rides
Given’at
The low lay set’n
Rolled horiz-
On cupped.
Between what
We see n’what we
See we
See. “Him” he scoff
Thought aloud, n’returned
To wait.
The cosmographer,
Barb berried,
Dripped lines, he was, he
Was questioning his
Sight, he, he was
Pluck berried
Quill dipped,
Questioning him,
His sight, “Did he
Blot his
Vase painting?” At
Artemis,
There now
Smeared, the whole of
Her virgin breast.
“Mistake!”
Heraclitus
Recognized it with ease
From there
Where he sat smug
Across th’temple room.
“All good?”
He flung his words
Like the dark that
Flings right
On shadows flicked
Out at snarked darkness
By wicks
Bid to dance, to
Linger, “Dear god
Maker?
Are you quite well?”
Him pursed and him
Both pursed.
Th’Cosmographer shim
Slimmered eyes drew
Out an
Inaudible “No.”
Thinker sound! Blast him!
He thought.
The bow, curved long
The plumb vase belly,
Flickered
There, could it, please,
Just th’slim candle
Light be?
Vase Painters and other poems are © Magdalene Fry-Bigby |
Chris Murray 