64 x 49 (Derivation)

Like wood, in which

a story can be read

in texture and grain

and finish, regardless

of its final shape or function,

so words carry with them

their closet histories, their subtle

over- and undertones:

reflection a bending back,

inspiration a held breath,

poetry a making,

juxtaposition placing one thing

next to another, all the way back
to iugum, the Latin word for yoke.

Process Reflection:

I've been thinking for several days about a poem by Robert Francis that presents a series of compound words stacked together like logs in a woodpile. It's been a favorite of mine for many years, not least of all because of its audacity. It's a poem that invites attention to the shapes of the words, as well as the unstated but fairly obvious denotative and connotative, as well as formal, connections between them. I was also thinking tonight of a conversation I had with my granddaughter about the derivations of some words she was studying for a spelling bee. And, of course, since I've gotten my workshop set up I've been thinking about wood. Yesterday I found an old gnarled root in the back of the recycled-wood pile and brought it home. All of these factors were in play as I began writing tonight's piece. Here is the Robert Francis poem:

Silent Poem
         
backroad leafmold stonewall chipmunk
underbrush grapevine woodchuck shadblow 

woodsmoke cowbarn honeysuckle woodpile
sawhorse bucksaw outhouse wellsweep 

backdoor flagstone bulkhead buttermilk
candlestick ragrug firedog brownbread 

hilltop outcrop cowbell buttercup
whetstone thunderstorm pitchfork steeplebush 

gristmill millstone cornmeal waterwheel
watercress buckwheat firefly jewelweed 

gravestone groundpine windbreak bedrock
weathercock snowfall starlight cockcrow