a four-light window...

1.
the first is a park.
a garden path between bare boughs
path at one side, mass of a yew tree
flecked with winter fruit
the glass beads of art nouveau
and more
more - to what end?

the mark of the square picture
in the garden path, bird's neck path
as it turns, impossible in words
only in the hand's gesture,
and cranes its unwritable bird's head
into dull bushes.



2.
the second is clouded.



3.
the third is of concrete.
i mean a garage roof
(the window sill cuts in two, and below
the vintage-animals invisible
bespoke tarpaulin
retracting light
from varnish & polish & chrome
and the unheard four strokes
resound emptily in their cylinders
with the viscous chill of winter garages)

while outside the burning winter sunlight
and the mix of climates
and the mix of woodpecker overalls
as it cuts over the snow field
and turns the horizon
like a steering wheel,
noon spin through bright meridian.



4.
the fourth is the sky,
drum-tight, without a line.
rare silence of earth's atmosphere
as it does not write, thick slate
its inextinguishable vapourings.
a few strokes only, broken signals,
broached interpretations,
remnant of prefix, an auspice.

a poem by the hungarian born poet agnes nemes nagy, from the book between: selected poems, published in 1988, in dublin. i recently discovered her work on douglas masserli's project for innovative poetry blog. her work is wonderfully economical, and at times reminiscent of francis ponge, although much more minimal. the images were shot sunday during the MAK center's annual architecture tour, windows from neutra (2), matson, and soriano.

this poem by nemes nagy is not my favorite (those will be posted another time), but it does contain my favorite word/image section i have read by her so far:

in the garden path, bird's neck path
as it turns, impossible in words
only in the hand's gesture,
and cranes its unwritable bird's head
into dull bushes.

it reads like a silent moving film.

i also love the entirety of window light 4... which seems so "much" that it feels as if the rest of the poem was simply the setting the table for this last read moment. the sound of the words, their order and suggestions of meaning, is overwhelming...

the sky as a covering, drum-tight... he sky without a line - perhaps is only a field, a shell... the sky as a rare silence - which one sees at times, but seldom hears - because of the inextinguishables.... and the ending: remnant of prefix, an auspice... as if all were some fragment of beginning, and always underneath...