— Brenda Hillman, from "Escape & Logic," In a Few Minutes Before Later
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brenda hillman in a few minutes before later: "doubt & love"
kofi
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We walked through night until there was a poem.
// Brenda Hillman
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Ash moon, seed
moon, green
room, mind:
here's how the first
song goes in time—:
it goes again
it goes again
again—
Don't ask
who I am. I was
the dawn song;
i helped you hide—
March Moon by Brenda Hillman
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Brenda Hillman
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Not to identify with suffering
that is the main thing
Brenda Hillman
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—You lay down in your bed
for ten years, and after ten years
you got up. The room was full of weak color
but there was an interesting little hill of rich life
from which all things streamed;
and you saw between
existence and the fringe of your
quotes non-
being on the wall
an active shadow that could not reconcile itself to earth
and was not ironical, that is, not split;
but nothing could be done without some
cooperation between this
shadow and whatever refused it in this world
so you invited it in—
dark existence that comforts and terrifies—
bright existence that could not stay—
Brenda Hillman, Dark Existence
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Brenda Hillman, from Pieces of Air in the Epic
Wind Treaties
Between church bells
I held its breath:
air coming from half-states
it has visited where
dread meets ecstasy’s skid-mark.
Allow us, mighty and
bruised oxygen. And I
imagined a black square
made of ariadne-thread
around the great city,
winds coming from corners
such that talking would
never cease. Talking should
never cease, heads bent
over documents allowing distinction
or zhivagoing solitudes, stitches
at the edges of
dignity. Decades of give-it-away
while these winds worked.
Lamps flickering in the
stable districts. Symbolic weight
being added to bodies
walking in ordinary courtship
outfits, in a park.
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To Mycorrhizae Under Our Mother’s Garden - Brenda Hillman
Hyphal tubes, symbionts, exudates,
glomalin proteins, pre-soil, prevent the leaking out . . .
Fluttered root tips of padded prickly pear, sand
under anxious days, enzymes, gill ghosts,
patched necromasses under her clothesline,
keep spirit close. Beneath feldspar, redbold mica.
Nets of roots, fate-kept not-death fungal sheets,
steady there, abiotic mediators, ones toward all.
Crawling now whirred opened cells,
Pleistocene N-rich molecules where rhizospheres
stayed still. Days of salts, stomata, pores in leaves.
Dirt with furry prizes turned zero clouds where
chores were done, to branch near places
she had moods, mendings. Sewed buttons on.
Ectomycorrhizal fungi, mend her there. Her here.
Mend moods here. Pink & beige mold moods, stay
the feet. Forgetters, spun threaders, where dots
& arcs host sugars. Ampersands of storage compounds,
weaving loves. Carbon allocators, micro-essays
of endomycorrhizal dappled net
of never seen, don’t. Light carriers, don’t forget,
fungal tracers, hold back below.
Tubes & branches, microbe niche of ground,
don’t forget her, earth that held her up—
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Seeing What We Want to See, Seeing What We Don't -- But Seeing, Regardless
Richard Feynman, Brenda Hillman, et al.: 'Seeing What We Want to See, Seeing What We Don’t -- But Seeing, Regardless'
[Image: “No Mowing (No Kidding),” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.) I admit, I laughed when I saw this sign — planted, as it was, in the center of a large marshy area beside the path.]
From whiskey river:
One of the most impressive discoveries was the origin of the energy of the stars, that makes them continue…
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"First Thought" by Brenda Hillman
The first thought
was rage--
In certain systems, the point at which that thought
emerges from God's mind is his consort,
but before she turns her rage onto the world, the violent
lords must give her the body of a woman which is not easy.
Imagine them standing around before they will trap
God's vague thought into female flesh. The way
their robes undulate, the slightly yellowing raiment--
poor things.
They will not understand the rage.
It will be expressed forever int he split in things.
In the two-toned lupine,
in the cupped, silk lining of the tulip,
in the red and white of all armies in all wars,
it will bend over my dream wearing his face.
The moment my daughter was lifted
from me, that sticky
flesh screamed fury,
for she, too, blamed the female body--
I loved it that she screamed--
and I knew I had been sent to earth to understand the pain.
The nurses moved about, doing something
over to the left. Probably weighing her
on what looked like blue tin. The flash of non-
existence always at the edge of vision,
and in the next moment, some unasked-for radiance.
Under those lights,
the nurses seemed shabby--
the ivory lords, come haltingly
into the bridal chamber, slightly yellowing raiment.
The last pain on earth will not be the central pain,
it will be the pain of the soul and not the body,
the pain of the body will be long since gone,
absorbed into the earth, which made it beautiful--
don't you love the word raiment?
Dawn comes in white raiment.
Something like that.
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— Brenda Hillman, from "On Days When We Both Travel," In a Few Minutes Before Later
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When the young ask: what was the most difficult thing for you as a writer:
the most difficult thing is to love. Actually, the most difficult thing is to feel loved—
// Brenda Hillman, “Escape & Logic,” In a Few Minutes Before Later
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The stars stand up
behind the day. A known dove balances
on its claw
at the window. A cosmic incident
of darkness has begun
& a mild excess of beauty
will be offered to the dead,
which they will eat. On a hill
the wise man serves the people,
your thought splits
in half when he speaks of the old
revolts, the return
of apocalypse, motive & advancement.
A soul can crouch
a long time while the heart
expands to reach its edges.
What is missing past the glitter
of the harvest?
Friend, you chose
to live. How? You did. So many
choices, not just two, encrypted
behind the mystery of the sun,
then the hurt was set aside,
indeterminate chaos
called in by love.
Winter Song for One Who Suffers by Brenda Hillman
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I go to the hill where "she" lies and see
it's true. Things borrow splendor.
In the shine off the back of a very large beetle
on the driest hill where so much is in bloom.
Even the serpentine pebbles in the cracks bloom,
even the cracks bloom.
The beetle crawls across one and goes on
lifting its legs as high as it can—
—Brenda Hillman
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