Embedded Files
The Ferrier, Desire I see you are a farer in illusion, a boatswain.Those buds, her eyes, come to Spring only when composing Vision:That of Life unbound.The left glimpsing you as a clutched palm,The right Energy balled.O, I long that can I clutch that ball, that I could unfurl Life for her.Her, her!A bloom that rests immense!
The Hand of Fire Tolls Our world is a lotus in the waterSpinning by the whim of the sea.Ismene encountered EveWhile Oedipus sat at ColonusAs Eden fell.When Antigone diedEden was freshly down.O Heart behind the curtain,Behind the moan of the crowd,Behind the hoary, tintinnabular Blue-We are flowers in the field for picking.
The Hand of Fire Tolls Our world is a lotus in the waterSpinning by the whim of the sea.Ismene encountered EveWhile Oedipus sat at ColonusAs Eden fell.When Antigone diedEden was freshly down.O Heart behind the curtain,Behind the moan of the crowd,Behind the hoary, tintinnabular Blue-We are flowers in the field for picking.
Landscape
There’s a fog on top of a lake. The prose and the subject matter. You wade into the shallows and try to fix the motion in the distance: the amorphous writhing, is it the ambulation of the fog or the washing of the waves that you’re seeing? Reading your book, you discover that the lyrical prose and the oppressive subject marry and constitute a landscape; what you see is neither force, the fog nor the lake, acting with dominance over the other, but each dances in the breeze, so that it’s not the prose and not subject that dominate the book, but the conscience of the author that is the unifying wind throughout.
There’s a fog on top of a lake. The prose and the subject matter. You wade into the shallows and try to fix the motion in the distance: the amorphous writhing, is it the ambulation of the fog or the washing of the waves that you’re seeing? Reading your book, you discover that the lyrical prose and the oppressive subject marry and constitute a landscape; what you see is neither force, the fog nor the lake, acting with dominance over the other, but each dances in the breeze, so that it’s not the prose and not subject that dominate the book, but the conscience of the author that is the unifying wind throughout.
S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter @terriblebinth or Instagram @shanelemagne.
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