Tag: Emily Wilson

by Emily Wilson

 

of the fungi

I have done

 

apart no crime

can come

 

sintered slew

mite and nematode

 

accosting in

the earliest makeshift

 

roots’ most intimate

symbiosis

 

ever you crowd

the crowded shades

 

close to

blue mold spikes

 

granular

impacts of

 

the inexhaustible

crimp and sinus

 

plot just

how is it you

 

think you can

come in here and

 

scut the fatty mastics

off

 

the antagonies

the parsimonies

from The Great Medieval Yellows Find more by Emily Wilson at the library

Copyright © 2015 Emily Wilson
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

by Emily Wilson

 

Blue Alice blue cyan

akin to something

bristling on azurite

you have to add some

grit to the principal

substance the “carrier”

I think it’s called

though I might never know

the true import

it comes out in

six or seven segregate heads

but in avoidance of

figures developing

much more eccentrically

spathe-like leaves

floating in stalls beneath

and down with that cheerfulness

in no particular

relation to you at its

centermost hesitant

to say anything even

to confess it

sticks in you

to even intimate it

must terribly be

what the art arched off from

from The Great Medieval Yellows Find more by Emily Wilson at the library

Copyright © 2015 Emily Wilson
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

by Emily Wilson

 

The stacks are bound

with crenellated piths

bredes and orchidlike

struts mapped to high

places that are virtual

complex scales or just

the only way to get anywhere

toward darkness made

of layers inchingly

proportional to

sound and disturbance

where gray breakers mold away

from their boundary blocks—

sleep, or the intrigues of

sleep in stepped-

off funneling flocks of

birds when you look down

like shoals glancing over

the vast reef subducting its traps—

to be close to

removed from

at once all unseen

touched-in

repentances how

are you anything

alive to such work

from The Great Medieval Yellows Find more by Emily Wilson at the library

Copyright © 2015 Emily Wilson
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

by Emily Wilson

 

In the photosensitive ground

my vision sleeps, stalked in love

and dread, in the metaphorical

fund we would be chemically

composed in, a simple order scanning

shoots moving whiplike overhead,

tripwire threads sprung from the least

constant, but to fix the sliding

sense, cluster-feeding subjects, things

we do on the retinal trap, still

we do them darker for the fovea

mills inside its nest, small

harlequin shark the eye bequeaths

somehow stranger to itself

astride the compassing mouth,

tensile glues, the mailed

shimmed enameling traveling to snap

the snap-strike future of its view, what

I feared, tinged, dissolved.

from The Great Medieval Yellows Find more by Emily Wilson at the library

Copyright © 2015 Emily Wilson
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

by Emily Wilson

 

It seemed the thing was juster

with its angles driven keener

giving depth and variation

to incising swallows black

along the traplines, slubs

in kinds of silk bent to

the spine, rounded, debossed

so I made the shadows, there

was room to mine the dry distracted

areas of sweet astride

the stark waiting to split the seasoned

cortex over-ridging the packed

flesh, the ruffed flesh marled

the bole, it was not flesh that glowed

off somewhat else but a dark mass

before the nineteenth century, though

I fell upon the work encumbered

as I was in verging snow

in a way of seeing through the stranded

vaults offwards, from the oak

the double-banded tucked and sheening

thing, world, withal

its stencil-webbed matters passing there.

from The Great Medieval Yellows Find more by Emily Wilson at the library

Copyright © 2015 Emily Wilson
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.

by Emily Wilson

 

Open the book. Scan the artful

page that pins things up—the cryptic

bud working too to square the sense

of a syndicated order, its siphon

blossom flare stiff in the bract, an act

happens off that slender moil

you can’t get through, sends streaks

through an arch distortion of

the core material—

bright green piping from

the “throat,” “gut” where still

some question drives—can you live

within the resolution of

momentary detail, above it, propped

up over where the words hang

in rigid combines stitching through

their dark debris field and fail to discern—

how do I—turning back, the shagged

bark, felt hairs kissing down

the bracketed midrib grace of—

the crop the forced part?

from The Great Medieval Yellows Find more by Emily Wilson at the library

Copyright © 2015 Emily Wilson
Used with the permission of Canarium Books.