Augury and unseen huntresses
Signs Of Presence
You will not notice the scuffed leaf, that this or that stone
held her shadow for a moment before restreaming through
the waters of the sun. Absent, too, the subtle bearing of being
watched from the nethers of the canopy, the soft creak of
bamboo given to a wind from regions at the edge between
what you cross and what you consider. There is nothing to
belie, therefore nothing to betray. If caught, you can surrender
no secret thing ungiven you. You are a pin-up in a sniper’s
scope. Continue the plod, nevertheless. There are boundaries
to assess, vistas that have never known such timid gazes as
can be shielded by the terse brim of your hat. This is the way
all explorers felt. Every one wanted their mothers to tell them
everything was going to be alright. And every one didn’t.
We tell our children go boldly, step with purpose before the beast
that would flag you in its rage. We say things like, In my day, or
When I was your age, or You have it easy when nothing could be
further from the truth. Our day found us knock-kneed, shivering
before height and weight and gravity, all manner of science untested
to our age of becoming. Yet we assigned our rights to this passage,
to tales of found spoor on a trail that switched back on itself like
a coiled treason. Such are the ways we must each lose ourselves
to find it was never about the looking. Disregard prints that seem
to fit your shoes for both were loaned you by the impress of your soles.
Ignore omens in the air, eagles shot out from the sky by invisible
arrows nocked by augury and unseen huntresses. These are not
your sagas to tell. As the table is set for such guests to come, you
will pass by like a paper plague in Egypt. This is their kingdom
and your place is not where you supposed. Fortune favors not the
least among us, but strikes down even the beggar king. Leave no
trace then, no evidence of your passage. There is richness in
forgetting as there is absolution in mystery. Remit no signs
of presence and become as the child who one day understands
nothing is the very thing he must lend his children if they are
to know everything.
Joseph Gallo
January 19, 2007
You will not notice the scuffed leaf, that this or that stone
held her shadow for a moment before restreaming through
the waters of the sun. Absent, too, the subtle bearing of being
watched from the nethers of the canopy, the soft creak of
bamboo given to a wind from regions at the edge between
what you cross and what you consider. There is nothing to
belie, therefore nothing to betray. If caught, you can surrender
no secret thing ungiven you. You are a pin-up in a sniper’s
scope. Continue the plod, nevertheless. There are boundaries
to assess, vistas that have never known such timid gazes as
can be shielded by the terse brim of your hat. This is the way
all explorers felt. Every one wanted their mothers to tell them
everything was going to be alright. And every one didn’t.
We tell our children go boldly, step with purpose before the beast
that would flag you in its rage. We say things like, In my day, or
When I was your age, or You have it easy when nothing could be
further from the truth. Our day found us knock-kneed, shivering
before height and weight and gravity, all manner of science untested
to our age of becoming. Yet we assigned our rights to this passage,
to tales of found spoor on a trail that switched back on itself like
a coiled treason. Such are the ways we must each lose ourselves
to find it was never about the looking. Disregard prints that seem
to fit your shoes for both were loaned you by the impress of your soles.
Ignore omens in the air, eagles shot out from the sky by invisible
arrows nocked by augury and unseen huntresses. These are not
your sagas to tell. As the table is set for such guests to come, you
will pass by like a paper plague in Egypt. This is their kingdom
and your place is not where you supposed. Fortune favors not the
least among us, but strikes down even the beggar king. Leave no
trace then, no evidence of your passage. There is richness in
forgetting as there is absolution in mystery. Remit no signs
of presence and become as the child who one day understands
nothing is the very thing he must lend his children if they are
to know everything.
Joseph Gallo
January 19, 2007
post-time 10:53 AM
4 Comments:
Oh my gosh - the words are beautiful and the photo of the blue beings is almost the exact image described in a scene in my work-in-progress...
Who ARE they?
billie
Thanks, Billie. The poem ws one of those title first, subject follows pieces that write themselves. You know what I mean.
The photograph was taken outside the Santuario located in Chimayó, New Mexico by my girlfriend, JoAnn, in August 2006. (I also took some shots of these nuns, but hers was better framed as they posed for photos, whereas mine were candid and compositionally cluttered, except for one).
I did some manipulations in Photoshop and arrived at this image version of the otherwise straightforward portrait she took. Glad you like the work. :-)
PS: The other image of the windmill and reservoir was taken by me on the Acoma Pueblo near Sky City in New Mexico.
Indeed, these are not our sagas to tell.
Beautiful.
And the blue nuns - spectacular image.
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