THE WORD BURNS, YOU SAY​

2023

light, stretch film

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The word bramble, you say?
I remember those boats stranded in the kelp that children drag around on summer mornings
with cries of joy in the black puddles—
because there is one, you see, where the trace remains
of a fire that burned there at the front of the world.

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And on the blackened wood, where time deposits
the salt which seems a sign but fades,
you too will like the water that shines.

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Of the fire that goes to sea the flame is brief,
but when it goes out against the wave,
there is iridescence in the smoke.

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The word bramble is similar to this wood which darkens.

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And poetry, if this word is sayable,
isn’t it knowing where the star
appeared to be driving but for nothing except the dead,
to love this light again,
to open the kernel of absence in speech?

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Poem from
-’Ce qui fut sans lumière’ Bonnefoy, Yves (p. 36)

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le feu qui brûla là, à l’avant du monde.

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Time doesn't pass. It waits until you listen. 

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