with her voice, long ago buried
the young girl (I don’t know her name) witnesses
and pieces together a frame, a line
that some might call, a thread
pulled from her throat before dawn
frail from the previous eight years
she thinks loud thoughts of definace
in the direction of the white moth
* * *
A package arrived in the mail yesterday just as I was heading out for a long walk and about to return to working on wings walking water.
The package contained two items. The first was the bookwork SILENT DIAGRAMS by Alison Gibb, which is a thoughtful piece that makes me think of repetition and new and renewed paths, of body, and of the physicality of poetics. This is a piece that I might try to respond to more fully, later, once I’ve had more time to live with the bookwork.
The second piece in yesterday’s arrival was a postcard, one from a series of ten, that features characters from Louis de Bernières’ Birds Without Wings. So much about this accompanying postcard made my breath hold back in my chest a moment or two longer than normal. The red. The title. Birds? Wings? Without? I have not heard of this book before (or don’t remember ever hearing about it, at least) but perhaps it is something I should try and locate and read … or maybe not.
Thank you Alison for sharing your beautiful work with me, and for this postcard as well, which led me to writing this indented line piece yesterday and today.
(Tuesday, August 27th, 2013)
* * *
SILENT DIAGRAMS by Alison Gibb has just been published (2013) in the UK by The Knives Forks and Spoons Press.