by Giles Goodland
He sketches another violin. It is lines backed with found stuff, F-holed. He says my eyes have seen what my hands did, I drive them over the page. He models his goat, Esmerelda, tethered near his dog, Lump. He watches the panic of the goat filling her mouth with foliage: not blind panic, seeing panic. Grass heads move, mountains butt canvas, nature eats the clothes from off our backs, through the hedge. Attached to the goat are expectations. The water bucks inside it, the heart lives up to the tongue. The animals agree, their mouths turn to see. Listen close, art is thought as thing is word and nature is artefact. Support the leaf, see how it happens, night pushes strings into our eyes. The forge is where we must now whisper from, see here breath is cloak, we damage that biased eye, it comes out like ageing promises, open it, reward the controls, feed the sense. The wind loosens crows and leaves. I draw out of my head a word. I write paint. Speak it.
Giles Goodland is a UK based poet, with books from Shearsman and Salt. He has a forthcoming book with Parlor Press (US).
Hyades Magazine 