Antoine Duchenet, Early Tapes, NOV 03,2021 - NOV 18,2021


 

Dec. 28, 1974
 

The plants against the light
which shines in (it’s four o’clock) right on my chair: I’m in my chair:
are silhouettes, barely green, growing black as my eyes move right, right to where the sun is.

 

I am blinded by a fiery circle:
I can’t see what I write. A man
comes down iron stairs (I
don’t look up) and picks up brushes
which, against a sonata of Scriabin’s,
rattle like wind in a bamboo clump.
A wooden sound, and purposeful footsteps softened by a drop-cloth-covered floor.
To be encubed in flaming splendor,
one foot on a Chinese rug, while
the mad emotive music
tears at my heart. Rip it open:
I want to cleanse it in an icy wind.

 

And what kind of tripe is that?
Still, last night I did wish—
no, that’s my business and I
don’t wish it now. “Your poems,”
a clunkhead said, “have grown more open.” I don’t want to be open,
merely to say, to see and say, things as they are. That at my elbow

 

there is a wicker table. Hortus
Second says a book. The fields
beyond the feeding sparrows are
brown, palely brown yet with an inward glow like that of someone of a frank good nature whom you trust. I want to hear the music hanging in the air and drink my

Coca-Cola.

The sun is off me now, the sky begins to color up, the air
in here is filled with wildly flying notes. Yes, the sun moves off to the right and prepares to sink, setting,

beyond the dunes, an ocean on fire.
 

James Schuyler
(p.13 in The Morning of the Poem; p. 233 in Collected Poems)







 

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