Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
~ after Remedios Varo, “Embroidering the Earth’s Mantle,” 1961 (oil on masonite)
In a circle we sew
what will be the earth’s
last sleeping garment.
How precious each thread,
plucked from our own heads.
A flock of goats clambers
up the rocky hillsides.
Vultures watch from crumbling
towers. Cypress and rosemary
among the rocks, their woody
scent like something burning
in a thurible. Up there,
the leathered coffins of
our dead— shrouded in air,
still sitting in counsel.
~ After Remedios Varo, “Exploration of the Sources of the Orinoco River,” 1959
Don’t we all wish to return,
to discover how it is that infinity
reaches across the world in a shimmer
of overlapping circles, unfazed by obstacle?
It simply goes around each tree in the wood,
spreads a filmy veil over every house, falling-
down shed, office building, and church; the sign
above the 24-hour drugstore and pool hall;
the alley where stray cats congregate,
giving rise to rumors about the most delicious
steamed meat buns in the noodle shop next door.
In the story about a fish that grants a boon,
the fisherman’s wife knows that the sweetest
meanings are always closest to the bone.
She tells him to go back and ask a deeper
question, which sadly he interprets as merely
a demand for more. Here she is, setting out to do
the hard work herself then— peeling back the body’s
outer cover, waterproofing the heart, re-rigging
the wings. So much ceremony, in order to arrive
at the spot where the water gushes without
measure, gives before one even thinks to ask.
~ after Remedios Varo, “Homo Rodans,” 1959; sculpture: chicken, fish, and turkey bones; and wire.
Infinite loop, eternal recursion,
alchemy of what comes back
to turn into what it was before,
as well as what it may be pre-
ordained to be— Now you have
rooms of bookcases from years
of telling yourself you should
read more novels and fewer news-
papers (actually for the crossword
puzzles); should listen to opera
especially for that moment the singer
opens her mouth and suddenly an entire
hushed auditorium becomes an echo
slipped into her lungs. Once,
in a secondhand book bin, you found
a book that had gone missing for years.
No question about it: your name
pencilled in the flyleaf, faded
notes on the margins. Creases, dog-
ears; faded receipt marking a page.
~ After “Revelation or the Clockmaker,” 1955; Remedios Varo
Where does the sky most feel
that it is about to crumble,
than above a roomful of people
making uniform rapid movements
eight hours a day in cubicles
all in a row? There are ceilings
so soft, they can only be held up
by the ticking of a room full
of clocks. Their angled tops
remind me of churches in my
hometown: as children, we liked
to tilt our heads and look
straight up at the steeple,
until it seemed we felt the sky
unhinge, and the world
revolve around that point.
~ after “Viaje de Lady” (1950), Remedios Varo
Caballero, no matter how terrible
the world looks this morning,
I am certain we still have it in us
to leap as a whale does, clear
over the waves. I wear a mask
but only because of these eyebags—
I couldn’t fall asleep until the winds
died down; branches kept breaking off
to sound drumrolls on the roof. Remember
those stories where a boat has sprung
a leak and slowly begins to sink?
What happens when you stop trying
to keep the water out? You plant
both feet firmly over the gap.
You think about the little fish
that nibble delightfully around
your ankles, exfoliating everywhere
your own hands could never reach.
Even the most taxing trial must
come to an end sometime. Even
the dark grows tired of being
only dark. Look closer; you’ll see
flecks of beet red, blue, sepia;
the careful outlines drawn
around figures pressing through.
~ after “Alchemy or the Useless Science” (1958), Remedios Varo
Seven bottled elixirs
for each day of the week.
Work, and the checkerboard
of days I wrap more tightly
around me, as nights fall one
by one. Through the walls,
the gospel of eternal
calibration piped in as
music. I take what’s
delivered, and flush out
what refuses to dissolve.
I’ve lost count of how many
thousand rotations,
the slurry of beats
in the rooms above.
~ after “Mimetismo” (Mimesis), 1960; Remedios Varo
Sometimes the furniture absconds
with my nightclothes, lets in
a fleet of curious clouds.
I have taught strings the secrets
of incremental levitation. Blending in
with the chair’s tapestry cover, I become
one tree in an orchard still glowing from
its last encounter with fire. When I am still,
don’t think my heart has vacated its post.
I’ve simply moved it into a less
conspicuous place. It glows from time
to time, reassuring me that it’s still there.
In response to Via Negativa: Backward river.
~ after Remedios Varo, “Papilla Estelar (Star Slurry/Celestial Pablum),” 1958
My lonely office
is to climb the stairs
that stretch
from the domestic world
into a citadel among
the stars.
I have no child, I have
no parakeet and yet
am most maternal here:
one hand turns
the crank handle attached
to a grinding plate;
the other maneuvers
a long-handled spoon
to feed this thin gruel
of stars to the moon’s
pale crescent, shimmering
behind bars. We watch
each other carefully, each
movement lyric and precise:
should each one’s light
falter or dim— moon, woman,
sky— night’s silences
would ring the centuries.