SurVision Magazine
An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
Issue
Nine
PATRICK CHAPMAN
In the Season of Blue Glass
you would step inside
the iceberg
hanging in the sky above the land
it once passed over
co-ordinates far apart in time
returned to the locus
where they had once intersected
an impossible configuration
a shaft in the ice but no sense
of direction or of gravity
long ago now you would stand
under a tree look up
turn and fall onto the ice above
to drop like a human stalactite
but feel no mass
no rush of blood
you would know
that which is inexplicable
to one who does not understand
a hymn of landscape jazz
a clash of conditions
in which the rules
of psychogeology
modify the laws of physics
time slides off the iceberg
you were there tomorrow
you will go there yesterday
you are never here now
a painted backdrop to a forest
the sky a slice of hours
calving off the glacier of time
a boom in air as minutes fall
in the clearing of your supersonic throat
the coining of your eyes
hanging in the sky above the land
it once passed over
co-ordinates far apart in time
returned to the locus
where they had once intersected
an impossible configuration
a shaft in the ice but no sense
of direction or of gravity
long ago now you would stand
under a tree look up
turn and fall onto the ice above
to drop like a human stalactite
but feel no mass
no rush of blood
you would know
that which is inexplicable
to one who does not understand
a hymn of landscape jazz
a clash of conditions
in which the rules
of psychogeology
modify the laws of physics
time slides off the iceberg
you were there tomorrow
you will go there yesterday
you are never here now
a painted backdrop to a forest
the sky a slice of hours
calving off the glacier of time
a boom in air as minutes fall
in the clearing of your supersonic throat
the coining of your eyes
Koan
Your
anthem hails the crack in everything,
a crack through which the light gets in –
but for an egg what enters is complete
existence failure, and you know it.
You know that a yolk –
like the disc that once upon a universe
spun our solar system out – is meant to
resolve into chick, the corona of albumen
absorbed in a matrix of beak, eyes, heart.
If hatched and female it may grow to give
more eggs – a star making suns that make
stars that make suns. It takes only a hairline
to let in the dark. Dropped on a stone
it is lost. Split on the rim of a bowl into flour,
the meat is diverted to pancake or biscuit,
or bread for enfolding a treat. Whisked
in a skillet on heat, it is still called an egg
but nowhere in nature are ova so rendered
observed to give rise to a bird.
And what sheer froideur to serve duck
in a dish bound with noodles and eggs,
no matter how fine the intended effect.
An egg may embolden tempera
to glaze the odd smile of a model
posed nude for the gaze of a painter
desirous of priming her spore –
but hers are not the kind of eggs
much used in art these days
when it is rare to find a satisfying
omelette composed from such an ovulate.
Lay one of those queens, dear Leonard –
and it is never the light that gets in
but some bastard in a birthday suit.
a crack through which the light gets in –
but for an egg what enters is complete
existence failure, and you know it.
You know that a yolk –
like the disc that once upon a universe
spun our solar system out – is meant to
resolve into chick, the corona of albumen
absorbed in a matrix of beak, eyes, heart.
If hatched and female it may grow to give
more eggs – a star making suns that make
stars that make suns. It takes only a hairline
to let in the dark. Dropped on a stone
it is lost. Split on the rim of a bowl into flour,
the meat is diverted to pancake or biscuit,
or bread for enfolding a treat. Whisked
in a skillet on heat, it is still called an egg
but nowhere in nature are ova so rendered
observed to give rise to a bird.
And what sheer froideur to serve duck
in a dish bound with noodles and eggs,
no matter how fine the intended effect.
An egg may embolden tempera
to glaze the odd smile of a model
posed nude for the gaze of a painter
desirous of priming her spore –
but hers are not the kind of eggs
much used in art these days
when it is rare to find a satisfying
omelette composed from such an ovulate.
Lay one of those queens, dear Leonard –
and it is never the light that gets in
but some bastard in a birthday suit.
Please
use all of the cord if you
do not use all of the cord there is
hope that you will hang only
the hurt that makes you want to
use all of the cord do not
load all of the shot if you
do not load all of the shot there is
a chance that you may blast only
the loss that makes you want to
load all of the shot do not
take all of the pills if you
do not take all of the pills there is
hope that you will numb only
the pain that makes you want to
take all of the pills do not
breathe all of the gas if you
do not breathe all of the gas there is
a chance that you may choke only
the grief that makes you want to
breathe all of the gas do not
shoot all of the horse if you
do not shoot all of the horse there is
hope that you may end only
the dark that makes you want to
shoot all of the horse do not
draw all of the blade if you
do not draw all of the blade there is
a chance that you may bleed only
the guilt that makes you want to
draw all of the blade do not
do not use all of the cord there is
hope that you will hang only
the hurt that makes you want to
use all of the cord do not
load all of the shot if you
do not load all of the shot there is
a chance that you may blast only
the loss that makes you want to
load all of the shot do not
take all of the pills if you
do not take all of the pills there is
hope that you will numb only
the pain that makes you want to
take all of the pills do not
breathe all of the gas if you
do not breathe all of the gas there is
a chance that you may choke only
the grief that makes you want to
breathe all of the gas do not
shoot all of the horse if you
do not shoot all of the horse there is
hope that you may end only
the dark that makes you want to
shoot all of the horse do not
draw all of the blade if you
do not draw all of the blade there is
a chance that you may bleed only
the guilt that makes you want to
draw all of the blade do not
Patrick Chapman has had thirteen books published since 1991, most recently Open Season on the Moon (Salmon, 2019) and David Cronenberg on Screen (Sonicbond, 2021).
