We Had Parked Where Providence Drive Ran Out, At The Edge of A Field—

Osel
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Joined: June 20th, 2007, 3:33 am

October 24th, 2015, 5:33 pm #1

cleaned it up August 30, 2018


We Had Parked Where Providence Drive Ran Out, At The Edge of a Field


It ran uphill to the facility’s entrance...
a pillared gate of Platonic, spectral beauty
that seemed less like a military checkpoint
than a dimension-spanning star bridge.      

              ~



You had brought along your sharp transistor radio,
its red plastic heat-seeking.
Because this was Day One, I was in charge of note-taking,
in case you fell asleep.
Even without preferences, you were impeccable. Dots and dots, and dashes.
Eyes aflutter, your cardigan fasteners a pearl diver’s temperance in long dark;
the six-minute mark,
when the breath rails
from a stunning lack of bodily reference.
     It ran uphill to the facility’s entrance:


my sketched notes show almond shapes, stark emptiness,
lush pinpricks. Aureoles like starfields   collapsed in:
 We listen to The Green Hand. You adjust the side mirror,
  a trickle of moonlight, a wavelet, laps at the wells.
The night air, a door ajar, in my notes—I have made a correction
you asked for and can’t remember
how it was spoken.
It wavers -
Were there palms enjoined, in Djabouti?
A pillared gate of Platonic, spectral beauty,


the rocks under our tires fall silent.    
Everything that breathes is slowing down.
Your mother of pearl buttons, alike the radio’s dial—
   Every form shone in bathed visage. One, upon a deep.
There are a clutch of breezed-over pages
that correspond, I have left them all-white.
Perhaps we had twirled both windows open. . .
to enfold our arrivals?  
An aquatint,
that seemed less like a military checkpoint


than some ectoplasmic roundabout.
In which basic hand gestures
encompassing volumes are reduced, to purely going.
There are boots, disembodied galoshes
appearing to climb a premonitory as though
a snow lay thick and even- in filling up behind,
and these go off-page   where, lacking words,
I drew myself a clue:  soughtless x’s,
homey globe less midge
than a dimension-spanning star bridge.



title and cabeza from: http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/arc ... zy/407833/
first draft



excerpt, from The Atlantic’s article.”.. We had parked where Providence Drive ran out, at the edge of a field, across which we could see the data center’s curving access road. It ran uphill to the facility’s entrance: a pillared gate of Platonic, spectral beauty that seemed less like a military checkpoint than a dimension-spanning star bridge. Behind it, cool green lights marked the perimeter. We started walking. A few minutes later we heard a thwop thwop sound.”











It ran uphill to the facility’s entrance:
a pillared gate of Platonic, spectral beauty
that seemed less like a military checkpoint
than a dimension-spanning star bridge.                      ~
You had brought along your sharp transistorradio, its red plastic heat-seeking.   Because this was Day One, I was in chargeof note-taking, in case you fell asleep.Even without preferences, you wereimpeccable. Dots and dots, and dashes,eyes’ flutter, your cardigan fastenersa pearl diver’s temperance in long dark;the six-minute mark, when the breath rails
from a stunning lack of bodily reference.It ran uphill to the facility’s entrance:
my notes show almond shapes, stark emptinessin lush pinpricks. Aureoles like starfields   collapsed in. We listen to The Green Hand.You adjust the side mirror, a trickleof moonlight, a wavelet, laps at the wells.The night air, a door ajar- in my notes—I have made a correction you asked forand can’t remember how it was spoken.It wavers -Were there palms enjoined, in Djabouti?-a pillared gate of Platonic, spectral beauty.
The rocks under our tires fall silent.    Everything that breathes is slowing down.
   Your mother of pearl buttons, alikethe radio’s dial— Every form shonein a bathed visage.  One, upon a deep.There are a clutch of breezed-over pagesthat correspond, I have left them all-white.
Perhaps we had twirled both windows open. . .to enfold our arrivals?    An aquatint,that seemed less like a military checkpoint
than some ectoplasmic roundabout. Inwhich basic hand gestures encompassingvolumes are reduced, to purely going.There are boots, disembodied galoshesappearing to climb a premonitoryas though a snow lay thick and even-ingfilling up behind, and these go off-page  where lacking words, I drew myself a clue:  soughtless x’s, homey globe—less midge
than a dimension-spanning star bridge.
title and cabeza from: http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/arc ... zy/407833/
first draft
Last edited by Osel on August 30th, 2018, 4:50 pm, edited 4 times in total.
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TerryO
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Joined: November 28th, 2014, 9:40 am

October 25th, 2015, 7:34 am #2

Ah. I see, now. The same article supplies lines for a glossa and a villanelle. Nice. I read the article last light--chilling.

I really like the opening of S3. And the twirling both windows down like wings "to enfold our arrivals". Separate arrivals yet together. As I have discovered, the ten-line stanza provides lots of canvas. Lots to ponder here. Will have to come back again. One thing. I wonder about the shift of tense in S3....

t.o.
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Osel
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Joined: June 20th, 2007, 3:33 am

October 25th, 2015, 2:20 pm #3

Hi Terry, 
thanks for reading

yes, so many lines I really love, in that Atlantic piece, it begged for poems. You know, although I was gripped, I did not find the article chilling. Perhaps because I'd considered all this --and more, some years ago (and at that time went through something like radical disorientation) I've moved from paranoia... however, I did have a spectacular dream the night before this poem. Enormous starship more field than ship, like football fields' size. Hard not to feel fear at first sight. Incredible. And still, people determinedly NOT looking up, as I have noticed in the daytime world, for going on twenty years.

The tense change is to honour let's say, the dimensional shift or wrinkle that happens, for the two. When in a moment like that, it is perpetually a 'now', and weaves back in with the notes which denote a past, or so I am postulating
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Osel
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Joined: June 20th, 2007, 3:33 am

August 30th, 2018, 4:09 pm #4

I am just looking back, to comb through poems, and xonstsntly find more incredible mess that Tapatalk imposed, when it took over the former siteworks.
argh! so much cleaning ip to do.
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