Still struggling to form and finish the next post (following on from the post dated 2 September) I'm once again resorting to interpolating a poem here, complementary to the poem I published last month (23 September). In fact I see both poems, each a poem in progress, as two parts of a single, longer poem, or as two closely interrelated poems. As with the previous poem, I'll continue to work on this one here, in the more or less public space of this blog. In the spirit of the relationship between the two I've altered the title of the previous poem -- or provided a title: the September poem is now, "The possibility of memory", with the current poem titled "The possibility of writing". I'll see where that goes. Meanwhile, I think that both poems are grappling with the writing process; with crafting, rather than with inspiration, since neither is inspired in the usual sense of that word.
The possibility of writing
[first line?]
A clutch of elk
A forest door
Light tilting against
A thickening sky
The gloaming
Tentative then
Flaring
Touching nose flank tail
Elk growling at low thrum
"Indefiniteness is an element
Of the true music"
says Spicer
The poet
Dreaming
Riding
Bareback through the forest
I taste the trail in my mouth
And I think to write this down
Walking the streets
Shadows stippling the sun
I'm a cotton weevil
Caught in a loose cotton weave
Unbuttoning one ear
I listen for the congregate elk
Chiseled from the glowing rod
heated shavings
swarming
Coalescing into letters
clustering
just enough
To make one sentence
maybe
The press goes
Clacketyclacketyclack
Crowding my dream
Planetesimals whirr the dark
Seventeen billion
aggregate spheres
Formed from superheated metal
Seventeen billion
trees
In a red-shifting forest
Our names carved
into this
one tree
["clutch"?] of elk
rim of light
forest lane
printing press
etc.]