Steven Johnson, Untitled
the birch grove, or (what’s left) when manuscript ink moves house . . .
Andreea Finichiu
Turn left, and keep going . . .
creaks of engawa . . . wood clears throat--
today’s word of wisdom: lacunae
What do you mean, teacher?
5 a.m. clouds landed early, the rain scent
nearly spent
Look for ink black
when ink black’s gone. You’re a writer.
I slide the paper doors, and into the room . . .
In the birch grove, where writers dwell
like the worn and old
rainwater
I have poured all my sigh
and housed is silence.
sunbreak follows me in, and stays
by my feet—no,
it’s not me but
the root flare of giants
overhanging my shadow
across the room I see
the scrolls, a sage quiet . . .
How long the silence?
this answer I know--
like mud and molten coal once,
letters must paint cheek and brow
to ensure descent
moving further . . .
my manuscript disposed
in forest formation—the scrolls abreast
I reach for one . . . back of palm brushing
the moss of swollen paper
that knew tear-shed:
“So she retreated in the shade, meaning
her tears for that blind spot of sun’s . . . ”
Do read more.
ink stains finger and vein
crawling upstream with the labour
of a reverse swallow,
just like the first time
Do stain more
the wood tender I failed to be.
“Little was she aware of
the wood-born inkblots watching from her left.”
I cup hands, and hold
the scent of rain from memory, while
cuckoo strikes the end of dawn--
back on engawa . . . new creaks ensue
I look above
and remember my teacher’s words—yes!
one must
read between cirrocumulus
just as one reads
between birch whites . . .
And so my pupil saw, and wrote
on white.
The birchwood that you see—his draft.
Ha! keeps putting the ending off,
makes me wait. I’m old enough, and
he says he may never finish it!
Before we see what’s left, why not
enjoy a sip, and let me read out
the first pages for you . . .
“[ ]
It all begins with a birch grove . . .
because I couldn’t tell the first line, you, like me, may have just drawn one or two blinds over.”
Andreea Finichiu
Turn left, and keep going . . .
creaks of engawa . . . wood clears throat--
today’s word of wisdom: lacunae
What do you mean, teacher?
5 a.m. clouds landed early, the rain scent
nearly spent
Look for ink black
when ink black’s gone. You’re a writer.
I slide the paper doors, and into the room . . .
In the birch grove, where writers dwell
like the worn and old
rainwater
I have poured all my sigh
and housed is silence.
sunbreak follows me in, and stays
by my feet—no,
it’s not me but
the root flare of giants
overhanging my shadow
across the room I see
the scrolls, a sage quiet . . .
How long the silence?
this answer I know--
like mud and molten coal once,
letters must paint cheek and brow
to ensure descent
moving further . . .
my manuscript disposed
in forest formation—the scrolls abreast
I reach for one . . . back of palm brushing
the moss of swollen paper
that knew tear-shed:
“So she retreated in the shade, meaning
her tears for that blind spot of sun’s . . . ”
Do read more.
ink stains finger and vein
crawling upstream with the labour
of a reverse swallow,
just like the first time
Do stain more
the wood tender I failed to be.
“Little was she aware of
the wood-born inkblots watching from her left.”
I cup hands, and hold
the scent of rain from memory, while
cuckoo strikes the end of dawn--
back on engawa . . . new creaks ensue
I look above
and remember my teacher’s words—yes!
one must
read between cirrocumulus
just as one reads
between birch whites . . .
And so my pupil saw, and wrote
on white.
The birchwood that you see—his draft.
Ha! keeps putting the ending off,
makes me wait. I’m old enough, and
he says he may never finish it!
Before we see what’s left, why not
enjoy a sip, and let me read out
the first pages for you . . .
“[ ]
It all begins with a birch grove . . .
because I couldn’t tell the first line, you, like me, may have just drawn one or two blinds over.”