A painter fendu,
these outbreaks of chrome yellow
forsythia stun
me to childhood slopes
near the Pacific. Rolling
fields of mustard. Far
out in the grey-blue
migrating whales one by one
stately as they pass.
Author: Tom D'Evelyn
Tom D'Evelyn is a private editor and writing tutor in Cranston RI and, thanks to the web, across the US and in the UK. He can be reached at tom.develyn@comcast.net. D'Evelyn has a PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Before retiring he held positions at The Christian Science Monitor, Harvard University Press, Boston University and Brown University. He ran a literary agency for ten years, publishing books by Leonard Nathan and Arthur Quinn, among others. Before moving to Portland OR he was managing editor at Single Island Press, Portsmouth NH. He blogs at http://tdevelyn.com and other sites.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 30.4.21
Everywhere I walk
apple blossoms blow; apple
blossoms line the path.
The cove appears, gray
and flecked with foam. An egret,
not about to leave,
stands in two-inch waves
and waits. No difference: sub-
stance and emptiness.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 29.4.21
Young, I studied my
self in Yeats’s many selves.
None survived my youth.
A day at a time
seems best, and walking around,
slowing to see things
as they appear. Care
for the otherness of things
is my salvation.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 28.4.21
Just one of those days—
not enough water at low
tide to float the ducks.
The horizon draws
the eye beyond desire to
the edge of elsewhere.
The distance erupts
with the tremulous outcries
of geese taking off.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 27.4.21
Polishing a ku
about my decentered life
made me wobble on
my way to the geese.
I prayed the Dao and settled
down. The wise faces
of the geese, inscru-
tible, greeted me, a drop
of red in my black.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 26.4.21
Solitary bird
moving with balletic poise
across the mudflat
you’re an illusion
of mine, I own you, empty
jesture. Prolonged watch-
fullness shrives me as
gathering wings, legs, neck, head,
my dream collapses.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 25.4.21
By walking I ar-
rive sometimes at the place where
my mind loosens up.
I see the breeze push
a duck along, its dark foot
still as a rudder
in the clear water.
The breeze moves through my mind push-
ing me rudderless.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 24.4.21
Limber lilac and
top heavy apple blossoms
lead me by the nose—
virtue is passive—
walking is a pointless art,
I forget shopping
and dreaming I’m a
painter, read Buson’s renga
Peony Fallen.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 23.4.21
Overnight the tips
of twigs gained weight and color.
Whole trees hum on my
way to the cove. I
reach the water, which glitters.
The world’s meaning, so
clear in winter, con-
fused now by the sense of things,
bursts with distinctions.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 21.4.21
Tiny drops of rain,
more like a breathing of rain,
from a cloudless sky.
At low tide the light
bends in the water, I bend
over to see it,
the enigma of
eternity, its showing
as it passes through.
