Sentinel

Sentinel (I). © Chris Bronsk 2014.
Sentinel (II). © Chris Bronsk 2014.

Jacket worn and shabby like a pack of wolves.
Face like a marble chip.
Sitting in a ring of his letters in the grove that sighs
of mocking and mistakes.
Yes, the heart is blown like paper through inhospitable passages.

Now sunset steals like a fox across this land
setting the grass on fire in a moment.
The sky is filled with horns and hooves, and underneath
the calèche glides shadowy between my father’s
illuminated estates.

Tomas Tranströmer, excerpted from “Gogol”

(from the archives)

Excision (Reprise)

Exision (Reprise). © Chris Bronsk 2015.

“The transportation of the body at the speed of light, previously precluded, will finally dissipate the old propriety of mass that consisted in resisting all acceleration by reducing the magnitude of movements, by braking; beyond the nuclear disintegration and the explosion of fissile materials, we are helpless witnesses to the vehicular dissipation, to the implosion of all mass and of all matter in the ubiquity of the excess of the light of speed. Thus, at the heart of this critical mass that has attained the point of no return, where temporal duration and spatial extension will have been evacuated by the final reconcentration of the physical field, all surfaces will be face to face, overexposed in a single interface, the absolute triumph of the geocentric illusion where the Occident will have finally come to its complete expression.” —Paul Virilio, from Negative Horizon

(This photograph is a reprise of “Excision” from 2014 and its pictorial asymptote, “Diagnosis” of 2013. It’s a theme I hope to revisit yearly.)

Sentinel

Sentinel (I). © Chris Bronsk 2014.

Sentinel (II). © Chris Bronsk 2014.

Jacket worn and shabby like a pack of wolves.
Face like a marble chip.
Sitting in a ring of his letters in the grove that sighs
of mocking and mistakes.
Yes, the heart is blown like paper through inhospitable passages.

Now sunset steals like a fox across this land
setting the grass on fire in a moment.
The sky is filled with horns and hooves, and underneath
the calèche glides shadowy between my father’s
illuminated estates.

Tomas Tranströmer, excerpted from “Gogol”

Interiors (I)

A recent spell of illness and days of heavy rainstorms, strong even for the rain-friendly Pacific Northwest, have lately kept me indoors and looking inward. Contending with this imposed domesticity are the ways we inhabit, through imagination, multiple places simultaneously. And it’s with this compressed vision that I attempt something different with a new series, Interiors. These lines from Philip Levine‘s poem “The Music of Time” seem a good opening for part one.

…Now I
can go back to my single room,
I can lie awake in the dark
rehearsing all the trivial events
of the day ahead, a day that begins
when the sun clears the dark spires
of someone’s god, and I waken
in a flood of dust rising from
nowhere and from nowhere comes
the actual voice of someone else.