Monday, August 13, 2018

STONE HUT ( 10 ) ~

One of the cairns Bob built in the garden


The small jobs on the hut were the last things to do. It was October, windy colored leaves were falling, some stuck wet by rain on the hut roof. I loaded the Ashley woodstove into the Willys and drove it to the hut. It was light. I could load it on and off the Willys alone. I carried it into the hut and placed it in the rear left corner, and eyed up through the box cut out in the loft where a stovepipe would pass into the metal chimney installed when I was nailing on the shingles. Stove in. The stovepipe — all used pipe, but sound — had been fastened together with screws the night before at the house. Over eight feet tall, it was now in place. Ready for a fire. The damper twisted away from rust with a pinch of oil. When we use the stove, firewood will be wheelbarrowed from the house woodshed; bring it as we need it. Burn poplar since the space to heat is small. Save the hardwood for the house. One other job was to flash the rear corners of the roof where it met ledge. In fact one rafter in the rear of the hut was built on ledge — I slipped a slate shingle under to keep it off the dirt. Since the hut was built into ledge I had to work lumber to stone and the last touches of flashing with the ledge. Otherwise rain and snow would shed the roof, splash on the ledge and leak into the hut. I flashed heavily but tried to hold the flashing to a subtle art — it has to be used but shouldn’t be seen — so with bending tricks and a dap of mortar it attached to ledge. Now with most of the hut built there was time to visit it — test the door, wash the windows, climb to the loft, climb down, sweep the floor. Sweeping the stone floor was my gift to the hut at each visit. It was an exercise between us. I liked sitting up there, but sitting on the doorway stone step was too low. The only furniture I gave the hut was a stone seat built outdoors into the bank on the right corner — it was eighteen inches off the ground made of one thick flat stone. One could sit on it and lean against the hut corner and the sun was there most of the day. One more stone was left over from the time the stone culvert was dug up out on the road, it was used here. And when my final job was to trim the butt ends of the beams that ran long over the side of the hut, I stood on the stone seat for half of the job — leaned a step ladder on the other side. Used a hatchet, handsaw, and plane to shape the beams an arrow design. Stained the fresh open wood the same smoke color. I returned to the stone seat until snow fell. After a few snowstorms and winter had settled in and a 40° day in the sun felt warm again, I would visit; sweep off the door step, sweep the inside, then walk out and sweep off the stone seat, and sit awhile.

A section of "Villa of Souls" a long stonewall with cairns atop
far up the mountain road of our woodlot


I always called both sets of grandparents “nana and papa.” My sister Sherry remembers when I was still too young to talk right I would mouth out a “banana” for “nana.” We had a wealthy grandfather who owned a lumber business and a grandfather who owned nothing but his house and his large family of daughters and sons who all had families that would come to visit. The grandfather with the large family was my mother’s father and his name is David Scott, Sr. His oldest son would also be named David, my uncle, and he was the first carpenter I ever met. He taught me things. But my Papa Scott was the first workingman I ever knew. The toil of manual labor showed on his hands, in his face, the strength of his body. I would visit Nana and Papa Scott with my mother when I was a child. We would arrive in time to sit with my grandfather at the kitchen table while he ate his supper, and I didn’t know if he was coming or going from his job at the paper plant. My grandmother would be on her feet at the stove baking soda bread, and my grandfather would eat large servings of food and very slow and he would talk to me in his thick Irish voice which I loved. We all sat at the table. My grandmother served tea wiping her hands on an apron skirt and a pot of tea was left on the table. One of my mother’s sisters was usually visiting at the same time and the tiny apartment became crowded with people. Plastic over the furniture, plastic runners on the carpet. It was a cellar apartment under my uncle David’s house. The only window in the kitchen was a narrow casement high on the back wall level with my uncle’s driveway. When people walked by you saw their feet. I would sit at the table with everyone listening to my grandfather talk, watched how he held his fork when he ate. I wanted to hold my fork that way but my father wouldn’t let me. The soda bread mixed with egg yolk on the plate. Soda bread that came like all of the family from Belfast, Ireland. It might be a reason for my stonework and back then I was picking up the rhythms. Papa Scott was the only man in my young life to show me the love for the woods, nature, the signs to be found there. We would hike into the woods owned by my other grandfather at every visit — jump the streams, climb the old apple trees, feel our legs go places. He showed me how to bend down and drink from that stream with my cupped hands. I still do it. Think of him. Later my grandmother died too sudden for all of us, and it left my grandfather half alive, but he refused to show it. But we all knew. He moved out of the cellar apartment into a trailer and worked as a house painter and janitor in a bank. People always liked him. He bought a bicycle and like his Belfast days would ride sometimes fifty miles in a day, all through the Berkshire Hills. That sparkle in the stream water I cupped in my hands I always saw in his eyes. When I was building the stone hut he visited with my mother and held Carson and rode in the Willys with me into the woods for stone. He’s eighty years old. Body hurt from years of working and doing things for others. He watches me load stone, knowing exactly how it feels.

My Grandfather Scott at work as a baker in Belfast Ireland with his horse and cart.
He had also been a policeman on a bicycle.

My grandfather's daughter "Penny", my mother, back visiting Belfast
and one of its many stone walls.


My father liquidated his lumber business in 1985. Given another three years and it would have been 200 years old. Known as the oldest family lumber business in America, at its height it was five lumberyards strong, all in the western hills of Massachusetts and Vermont, and over 400 houses were built in those hills alone. I was brought up in that lumberyard, as were my older sister and younger brothers, and Sherry has a lumberyard with her husband Ron in Great Barrington — tradition is tough to kill. I learned how to work in the backyards of the lumber business. From the age of nine I was stocking the paint room, sweeping the railroad tracks, brooming between the plywood racks. I didn’t love the work, but it was a weekly allowance, and I imagine a way for my father to teach his middle-class kids how to work. The dullest job was resorting the hundreds of spilled nails around the open nail bins. On my hands and knees distinguishing a 10-common nail from a 12-common. I swore at the job but when I look back at it now I see the pick and choose of stonework taking place; the eye to hand ability, the solitary corner of the job. I watched carpenters walk into the nail room and leave the floor a mess — their carpentry work usually matched it. Same with the ones who walked in, knew what they wanted, loaded the scale, and if a nail dropped they went after it. I enjoyed being around those builders and later I would build with them. As a teenager I started to load the lumber trucks for house deliveries and rode with the drivers to unload the same load, sometimes we’d be gone all day. Into southern Vermont, the Catskills of New York…seeing houses go up, crews of carpenters moving, sounds among men. I unloaded boxcars packed with western spruce, hot as an oven in there, me and another kid — all day, all week, all summer. You begin to learn the smell of the western lumber and its grade, superior to the eastern pine we handled. One day I brought home a small bag of pine knots — knocked out of the lumber we unloaded — as a gift for my sister. The lumber was ruined after that, but what did I know! The knots were beautiful. At age fourteen I began to work with carpenters on house jobs but didn’t touch a hammer for two summers. I spread stone for leach fields one summer, carried lumber to the carpenter with the hammer the next summer. By the third summer I was framing, using a shovel, jackhammer, tarring the foundations. I tucked a book in my lunchpail and when others broke for lunch I would listen to the chatter, eat, and read. Earned the nickname “preacher,” never mind being the boss’ son. No harm. Most of those guys showed me how to work…Freddie Zarek, Jim Duffy, Big John were their names…I always enjoyed being in their company. My father had his eye on his oldest son picking up the business end of the lumberyard, but I had no interest. It wasn’t easy for either of us. Generally I’ve never had much respect for businessmen — their attitude is power, intimidation, and of course money. My father was a good businessman, I looked up to him, even though we fought. His lumber knowledge was learned the hard way — under his own father — and he put me in with the workers to learn. And when it was time to let me go, he let go.

Three generations Bob, Carson and my father, also "Bob"
standing at the tail end of his lumber business,
whittled down from a once sawmill and five lumberyards


The town of Carmel, California can be easily bypassed, but the coastline can’t. If you do, you will miss what surf and stone is all about. There was a stonemason who once lived in Carmel, who worked around that surf and stone, who gathered the granite from the coastline to build his home. House, garden walls, and even a tower he shaped with his hands. All of it looked back at the Pacific where it came from. Robinson Jeffers looked like he came from the Pacific, just like his stone. His wife Una’s favorite poet was Yeats and when standing on the shore staring up on the bluff where the stone property is encircled by cypress and eucalyptus trees you can hear and feel Yeats’ lines “hammer your thoughts into unity” all over the stonework. When Susan and I were searching for the house, we knew this place was it by its location with the sea, the wind, the long grass blowing from the coast road up into the yard. We stayed away. Walked the road around it, connecting with a street bunched with wealthy houses which made the Jeffers home appear more of a survivor. Everything in its landscape was interesting: being a forester Jeffers had planted trees all over his land only to have them chopped apart as progress advanced. But some have withstood, enough to give the land ocean breeze movement. The house and tower are rock, not pretty, but they have the lasting appearance of being from the land. There is another stone house nearby which I didn’t give a second glance to — it was built I’m sure by a crew of masons, and while it is massive and correct, it is devoid of feeling. It’s too correct. The Jeffers house is squat, like an animal on its haunches, many small windows give it eyes that look to the Pacific. The tower, better known as Hawk Tower, is a signature to anyone who must see it for the first time that some different kind of people must be living here. “Here” was known as Tor House, and different Jeffers was. Called eccentric, loner, hermit, antihuman — people read his poetry too much and don’t visit his landscape where he carved out the life poem. The poems really live on the land he loved with his wife and twin sons. You can see a lot of humanity on that land, and where the eyes look up and down the coast that’s where the long poems came from — the legends, the stone, the combined rhythms of surf and stone. There is a tour during the week into the Jeffers house but we were there on the wrong day. Besides, the house is enough to watch from the outside, and if Jeffers were still alive that’s where most of us would have to stand to see it. You need to have the ocean in your ears. I had been reading his work for years before we arrived there. I studied the photographs of the house, read his letters, but nothing prepared me for the real thing. It is a quiet location, almost unnoticed, having lost its face long ago to nature. We were up at Fort Ross a day before looking at historical redwood log work. At Tor House it took only a minute — a long swallowed look — to know the work, the poems, the life were true.

Detail of a stonewall Bob built on the way to Brattleboro

all photographs by Susan Arnold

Stone Hut
a builder's notebook
Bob Arnold
1988, 2013

Saturday, August 11, 2018


W I L L I A M       C O R B E T T
A Poet's Poet Poets Poet

One of the best

October 11, 1942 ~ August 10, 2018


Monday, August 6, 2018

STONE HUT ( 9 ) ~

The finished stone hut, full pond, maple tree stump from the tree
we dropped


It is now late September and enough flat stone has been hunted from the woods to lay down the hut floor. It will be all stone. Mortar the edges. Some stones are over three feet wide and with Susan’s help I loaded them into the Willys. They were found near our old springhouse, mostly flat. But I don’t worry about perfection — what I have is what I have to work with, and it will work. A half day is spent hauling stone to the hut and carefully unloaded; trying to wheel or pivot large stone on the ground close to the doorway. The less handled the better. Half of this work is how you position the material you work with. When the ground is dry the Willys can back tight with the hut and allow easy access. During days of rain, like we had after the floor stone was hauled to the site, I wheelbarrowed the two yards of gravel from the last of the pile across the yard and spread it over the dirt floor as a pad for the stone. A chance is taken the frost won’t settle under and heave the floor. But ledge is everywhere around: the entire rear wall is ledge, and ledge was struck in places when I dug out the side wall footings. I feel pretty secure. When the pond is dry you can see where the ledge pops up into a table shape in the middle and if you follow with your eye further it will run through the western corner of the house and all that is ledge too. A reason for the half-cellar under the house — the old timers knew when to stop digging. And into the front yard, still leaning on the western side, large ledge croppings appear — we planted daylilies around each one. Finally the ledge shows its face again, like it does in the backyard where the hut is, 1200 feet away from the hut in the river. We dive from it when we swim. I spread and tamp the gravel inside the hut, working it under the lip of bottom course stone, then I carried in the stone, easing each into place while shifting them level with my eye. I worked from the rear to the front and saved the widest stone for the width of the doorway and patterned a few of the other large stone into a design with smaller stone. Later, using a 2" x 4" straightedge, I placed a four-foot level on it and roughed together a near level floor. Where there was a dip, the stone was lifted and gravel thickened under it, and where a dip was in the stone itself and couldn’t be helped, I lived with it…laid it in the corner where the woodstove would cover it. In our back door terrace at the house I saved a stone for the top step because it had a dip in it that gathered rain water as a drinking bowl for the cats. Every stone has a use. Now the stone floor was done. It took a half day to mix the mortar and butter it around all the edges — smooth the dips — trowel and pointing tool. When the mortar was between wet and set it was swept with a broom. It grizzled the look of the mortar that much closer to stone.

The old barn wood door, and Bob's stenciling


I found the barn board door hung on the hut doorway, which now made it a home, but I won’t say where. Someplace where I was working and this old door was neglected, tipped on its side, bottom edges burned away to ground rot. I had a bowsaw with me on the job and sawed off the exact height to the hut doorway — six-foot six inches — that dropped away the rot to serviceable wood, lovely wood. Darkened just right. I would rip the width of the door when fitted back at the hut. Four strap hinges were already with this door and they came along. I used two of the hinges and saved the other pair for another job someday — hacksawed off the rusted bolts. Back at the hut the door was sized to its three-foot width, and since the door was a single plank thickness I kept that for the exterior but added another thickness to the inside, battening whatever scrap lumber I had horizontally to the interior barn board. That filled all cracks and gave the door twice the weight. I stained the new lumber smoky. Hinged the door to the left doorway post; the same pressure treated post that was set four months ago. The right hand post needed a chisel to nitch out a depth for the draw bolt latch to drive into. Now a door handle had to be found, and for ten dollars my friend Scott, now doing less treework and more ironwork, hammered out a foot long pull handle for me. It took him about a week to forge and mail down from Maine. While waiting, the handmade door jambs were nailed together and stained. That loft railing for Carson was built, plus a ladder. The handle arrived and I screwed it on. There was a subtle swirl to the handle where the hand gripped it that I liked. Scott knew I would.

Bob digging in a stone stairway years later
under the tall maple trees


A ladder had to be built to reach from the stone floor to the loft. I went into the woodlot with a bowsaw and found one straight maple sapling growing in a clump and it was a perfect pole shape and just what was needed. I carried the whole sapling back, thirty feet of it, and sawed off the top. With a hatchet I lopped off the lower branches and any burrs on the tree to make a clear surface to nail on the ladder rungs. I narrowed the top and widened the bottom like an orchard ladder. Two poles for ladder stringers nine feet long. I nailed on the 1" x 4" slats for rungs from the butt ends of the strapping saved from the roof job and rounded the edges. Used 8-penny flooring nails which bit into the maple. While rounding edges to the ladder rungs I took a four-inch slat of barn board and drilled a hole in the center, then fastened it with a long screw and washer into the right doorframe post — it worked good as a swivel lock for the door. Turn it and walk inside. There would be no lock on the door. When inside the draw bolt could be used for privacy. I turned the swivel lock and walked inside with the ladder. The stone floor had set for a week but dry mortar was still being swept off the stone. I eased the top of the ladder against the rail of the loft and set the ladder down on the floor. A 10° cut on the bottom of the ladder legs made it stand firm. I climbed up. That evening Susan climbed up while I held Carson, then I took Carson up. The next day our new neighbors were visiting…one at a time they climbed up, especially their five year old son Matthew, and through Matthew I could see what Carson might do with this hut. After everyone was gone I lifted the ladder away from the loft and placed it on top of the length of side wall stone. It had inches to spare between the front wall beam and ledge wall in the rear, and lay over the top of the window frame. That felt good to set it there. I hadn’t planned it that way.

Bob away at work making a living roofing an A-frame


All sorts of jobs went on during that six months from May to October beside the work on the hut. The outside jobs paid for the time at home laying stone: Bob Hauptman’s house was framed by mid-August and he would return the following summer and finish the interior work himself. I had three roofing jobs going that summer and fall: for a house, porch, and repair of a large barn. Asphalt, steel, slate were the materials used. I remember nailing the shingles for the porch roof through an October week of rain. At the porch job there was also treework to do. It was a two-man job but I didn’t know anyone nearby to lend a hand so I did it alone —usual story. A sugar maple very close to a house had one of its two main leaders dying and the job was to cut out the dying leader. It took a thirty-foot ladder to reach the crotch of the tree, then to work between a heavy rope and chain saw. Wrapping the rope high on the leader, letting the rope drop through the lower branches to the ground, I would cut with the chain saw at the crotch of the leader, climb down and tug the rope, climb back up and saw more, climb down and pull, etc. Two wedges in the back-cut cracked it into a lean and by pleading with the rope on the ground it began its dive between the house and barn. It takes about an hour for the tension — obtained from the tree’s tension — to quiet down in your own body. It’s just one way to do treework. Other treework was done that fall: a friend had bought land in southern Vermont and wanted a house built. I might be building the house so I went to the land one day to mark trees to clear for the house site, driveway, and yard. The land had good looking trees but not many of tremendous size: black birch, beech, maple, ash, hemlock. I wasn’t planning to drop trees the next day — in fact Susan had plans to climb Mount Monadnock with me and Carson — but this friend was in a hurry, and a job is a job when you are self-employed. Two gallons of gas were emptied into both chain saws the next day. With my friend hand clearing the logs and brush I dropped tree after tree making a swath for the driveway and then cleared a wide area for the house site on an upper shelf of the land. It faced the sun at nine in the morning. Between us we finished the job in a day. And I went back to laying stone the next day and we promised Carson a hike up Monadnock in the spring. He didn’t mind. Life for him, four months old, was a few feet around him, and how much joy he got just from that. Lucky guy. Those six months of building the hut were made up also of slow, dirty, loner jobs, or what Susan terms “junk jobs”…digging an underground electric line with pick and shovel, weeding asparagus gardens, cutting brush, piling brush, burning brush in the rain…and no complaints, it is all part of it. Like Carson I was willing to look only a few feet around me and enjoy it.

all photographs by Susan Arnold

Stone Hut
a builder's notebook
Bob Arnold
1988, 2013

Sunday, August 5, 2018

for Bob!

"Dreaming My Dreams With You" for your birthday, August 2018
Love, Sweetheart

PS ~ A little birthday~birdie told me about this one!

A Kokomo-As-Kitten Production

Friday, August 3, 2018


University Press of New England
Island Institute

Wednesday, August 1, 2018


Negative Space


I was born on a Tuesday in April.
I didn't cry. Not because I was stunned. I wasn't even mad.
I was the lucky egg, trained for gratitude
inside the belly for nine months straight.
Two workers welded bunk beds at the end
of the delivery room. One on top of the other.
My universe might have been the white lime ceiling,
or the embodiment of Einstein's bent space
in the aluminum springs of the bed above
that curved toward the center.

Neither cold, nor warm.
"It was a clear day," my mother told me.

It's hard to believe
there were a few romantic evenings
when I was conceived, a buzz in the retina
and red-laced magma
decadently peeling off
a silver candlestick.
Infants' cries and milk fever
turned to salt from the stench of bleach—
abrasive, unequivocal.
With a piece of cloth wrapped on the end of a stick,
the janitor casually extends the negative space
of the black-and-white tiled floor
like a mouth of broken teeth, a baleen of darkness
sieving out new human destinies.
1968. At the dock, ships arriving from the East
dumped punctured rice bags, mice
and the delirium of the Cultural Revolution.
A couple of men in uniform
cleared out the church
in the middle of the night.
The locals saw the priest in the yard
wearing only his underwear, shivering from the cold.
Their eyes, disillusioned, questioned one another:
"Wasn't he the one who pardoned our sins?"
Icons burned in front of their eyes,
icons and the holy scriptures.
Witnesses stepped farther back,
as if looking at love letters
nobody dared to claim.
Crosses were plucked from graves. And from each mouth
spilled irreversible promises:
mounds of dirt the rains would smooth down
sooner or later.
Children dragged church bells by the tongue.
(Why didn’t they think of this before?)
Overnight, the dome was demolished, instantly revealing
a myriad of nameless stars that chased the crowd
like flies on a dead horse.
And what could replace Sunday mass now?
Women brought cauldrons into the yard.
Men filled up their pipes; smoke rose
into the air, against gravity's pull.
Nails in worn out shoes exposed stigmata
that bled in the wrong places—
a new code of sanctification,
of man, by man.
"Read!"—I was told. Who said that?
Angel Gabriel, or my first-grade teacher
who had dark roots underneath her bleached curls?
Language arrived fragmentary
split in syllables, spasmodic
like code in times of war.
"Continue where your classmate left off!"
A long sentence tied us to one another
without connotation as if inside an idiom.
Someone would get to read the noun, another the verb,
a third one a pronoun. . .
I always got the exclamation mark at the end—
a mere grimace, a small curse.
A tall cast-iron stove below the portrait of the dictator,
puffing smoke from its temples, enough heat for everyone.
On the blackboard,    
leftover diphthongs from yesterday or the day before
rubbed against one another like kittens.
After dusk, I looked for another language outside the window,
my eyes glued to a constellation
(they call these types "dreamers")
my discovery possibly a journey into the past,
toward a galaxy already dead, nonexistent,
the kind of news that needs millions of years
to reach me.
"Read!"—the angel shook me for a third time
her finger pointing to an arbitrary word
a million light years apart from its object. (It didn't matter who
       was first).
Negative space sketched my onomatopoeic profile
of body and shadow in an accidental encounter.
Language is erosive.
It makes us recluses,
a wind through the canyons
carving our paleontological eras
for everyone to read.
Under the revised testament of my skin
bellows a gold-cast bull, an alluring object,
a need for attention.
Then comes the unleavened bread and a last supper,
which, remarkably, is repeated several times
between ice ages.
Lower yet, Sodom.
I recognize it from the stench of sulfur.
I hold my nose. Freud would have done the same.
And then Cain,
a crow taught him how to bury his own brother. . .
And at the bottom,
Adam’s gentlemanlike sin
under which scientists
discover earlier epochs of famine.
Between unidentified layers,
wanderings in the sand, the search for a new prophet. . .
I try to understand my people.
Their language is plain. Some words,
were actually never uttered, like pages stuck together
in a book fresh off the press
and long after it sits on a shelf.
This, too, lives inside me
within insidious bubbles of air, negative
spaces where I can find little historical rest,
but also where utter ruin may originate.

Little left of the snow three days ago.
Its blanket ripped away, exposing
dog shit and the bruises of routine.
Negative space gives form to the woods
and to the mad woman—a silhouette
of the goddess Athena
wearing a pair of flip flops,
an owl on her shoulder.
It’s minus zero. The factory’s gate gnashes its teeth
behind the back of the last worker. Blowing noses, shivering,
     mucus. . .
A virus circulates through the workplace,
secretly, intimately touching one person after another,
a current of sensuality.
It softens the tone.

But nothing unites them more than their frailty,
The one-sizes-fits-all shoes you must grow accustomed to
By filling the extra space with cotton,
Or curling your ill-fitting toes.

In Halil’s yard,
rules were sacrilege.
His eight children entertained themselves
by carrying famine on their shoulders,
recalling St. Bartholomew’s flayed skin.
Starving, filthy, hazel-eyed—
three qualities that unexpectedly coalesce
in the bright light, strung together like sneezes.
One’s famine was another’s consolation.
“Look at them! It’s a sin for us to complain.
They’re even worse off than us!”
But even Halil found his own consolation
in the old woman Zyra, “barren and paralyzed,”
the root origin of despair.
This was our highlands landscape,
hierarchical, where each family
would make out a different expiration date
on the roof below their own.
Schadenfreude was the only river
that could turn mills.
But if this hierarchy shifted,
and our roof gave signs of ruin,
my mother would plant tulips in the garden,
white tulips, our false image,
a scarecrow to keep predators away.
Nearly nothing was mentioned in the letters he sent from prison,
just two lines, on top of the page:
“I am well. . .” and “If you can,
please send me a pair of woolen socks.”
From them, I learned to read between the lines:
negative spaces, the unsaid, gestures,
insomnia that like a hat’s shadow
fails to shade your chin and ears.
And in the photographs’ white background,
acrophobia adds to the color of their eyes: blue,
green, gray, and ultimately, chesnut brown,
as, earthward, we lower our gaze.
I learned to read the empty spaces the dead left
behind—a pair of folded glasses
after the reading’s done and discourse commences.
Or the musical chairs game called "love,"
where there are less empty seats than people.
If you don’t want to be the last one standing
you must predict when the music will stop.
(Who, though, has really succeeded?)
Perhaps a little practice can be useful in this case.
I don’t mean squatting, jumping, stretching,
but listening to the same music every day from the start,
the same miserable vinyl record
so that you’ll recognize its cracks
before it recognizes yours.
Midnight. Snoring,
meaningless sounds that stain the side of the wall
that belongs to no one.
So where are we? What dimension?
Who foots the bill at a time like this
without lambs or sinners,
when even angels record nothing?
The street’s clearly visible
under the neon 24-hour-service sign
above the funeral home.
There was a music shop next to it
that closed down a few months ago;
the shop shared a wall with the funeral home,
shared the same water pipes and the same gate to heaven.
But the coffins won,
the wide-shouldered coffins that narrow down
in the shape of a mummy, not a human.
Wood of the highest quality, swears the owner,
and pure silk inside, pleated like a stomach
that can digest even a bulldozer.
When asleep we're simply five limbs. Starfish.
If you cut one limb, it will grow back.
Even a single limb could recreate us from the beginning,
     a single hope.
Negative space is always fertile.
No one knows if it was simply a matter of mixed
or some other reason why I used to see
what I wasn't supposed to see—
the ending of things.
It wasn’t a mystical gift, but like a blood clot
in the darkness of a vein, I held on to reason,
as it circulated from the bottom up
and not the other way around as we were told.
I used to start from the edges
and with my left hand or a croupier’s stick
gather the balls and dice from the corners
and then watch the bettors
as neither a winner nor a loser.
There's nothing sillier
than watching a film in reverse
where after the climax, the protagonists
are replaced by circumstances,
and circumstances replaced by minor characters,
their tongues plastered behind a single, fatal smirk
Life and my short lunar calendar slipped away
like carbon paper sending off as much light as necessary,
skipping the details, the contrast and sharp colors.
Lunar time is short. Until the actual end,
there are years enough, the negative spaces.
What to do with them when the verb
has already been uttered, a conclusive sentence
with Latin syntax, or more than that:

Luljeta Lleshanku
Negative Space
New Directions 2018