Coda V:83 Hands, Woven of Water and Logic and Hunger, with No Strand of Love in Them, ink and graphite, 2016
That whole semi-conscious in the hospital thing in the spring threw me off my drawing routine and I never got back to it, after ~540 contiguous days of drawing. But these words have been echoing in my head all week, and for better or worse this emerged... I don't know what's up with the graphite scribbles over the ink, that is so not me...
These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
who would leave his wife and child because
they made noise in his study. These are the poems
of a man who would murder his mother to claim
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant
as elm leaves, which if they love love only
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.
These poems, she said....
You are, he said,
That is not love, she said rightly.
Robert Bringhurst, These Poems, She Said from The Beauty of the Weapons