Snows of a Mother’s Face

            “So, is your mother a landscape
                  or a face?”
                        ~ G. Deleuze & F. Guattari,
                                    A Thousand Plateaus

 

I
                      or landscape

if so, swidden

         but snows of a mother’s face

                         bright as bible tripe
                         cicatrix

                         dove-shit over the ashlar

even litvit-skinned that
bright that
fictive    

 

II

white cuts distance
ushers limit               hems
the pestering light
in countless falls

sees the bitten leaf-raft eke a course
across dim nursery water

                     down sagittarian silver street
mid north
moon before yule

enfield arms bearing
an eagle-shanked and taloned wolf

                     sinister
back-foot
fleck-head

to the dexter

 

III

strange benison this winter
transmittance through layers of waking

                  hidden tiers
                  some ascend
too pure to fall

though in droves they do so and no sully

 

IV

celt-white
caught on fencerows
thistledown mimics
bits of fleece
drifts of face
traces
concealed by broken nurture

 

V

deepen bright obliterator
distance softens

a little nearer
and the teeth wheel tine-light
points to angelic pinions

jagged and atomic
disjecta

 

VI

begin small
frost-sane
on a path through the common

               hearken        in glade-womb
               thee encrystalled spells remain

 

VII

the clear strain
seen through prints
negatives
yet developed
runs down the years
a willed relation

as through root of fern abides
the oblique redeemer

 

VIII

moth-furtive
bat glass
entreat the fond aperture

beyond
                 in drink
                 in candlelight
some are ghosts of
                    babies of
                    bastardy

hard the ancient judgements die

others come from caves with snow and crying

 

IX

as secrets whispered
                                                      the trees
                         distances mist

and provide with brighter irroration
where the same begin to darken darken
the winds
hanging nine nights as one
looking down into one
self at one
self

until as of old haunters
galloping over whimpers
the fontless torrent's charge is heard

 

X

fall in gentle ministrance
then as flurried maul

crispen bright the sloping stars
sharp as shroud-folds cold to touch
sting-flake whiter nettle

 

XI

crave an empty space to play burial

at night

in gaps in snow
the blacks and depths
asymmetric
crystals permit
pain as far as the threshold

 

XII

mirrors encrypt the darkness
some deciphered light
rises to the surface

breaks as glitter
assembles a shine
to walk out into silent woods

its shyness to bathe
denied by the summoned mother's gaze
the shunned light

darkening through elm to dark on alder
reminds that greater roots have withered
beneath these trees

 

XIII

teach one that when presence breaks
absence
completes

 

 

 

[Adam Flint was born in North London and is currently based in Potsdam, Germany. Recent poems can be found in Poetry Salzburg ReviewShearsman magazine, and Reliquiae journal from Corbel Stone Press – including their Contemporary Poetry series.]

Copyright © 2019 by Adam Flint, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.