165.1: Julia Bloch:: Right Ovary, Left Ovary & Fourth Walk & Tulare & Strathmore 165

In "Tulare," the third poem below, Julia Bloch writes: "Too much space between the objects." In "Fourth Walk," the second poem, Bloch writes: "Because she wrote it down and it was used as evidence." In "Right Ovary, Left Ovary," the first poem, Bloch writes: "Some of / the jars were labelled S / and some of the jars were labelled W." In "Strathmore," the final poem, Bloch writes: "it is a punctuation device." In all of these poems, the idea of the object comes to the fore. In the form of these poems, the statements, lines, and words are presented as objects for consideration. The poem is itself an object, and the pieces that make up the poem are also objects. In the content, the object-ness of things is considered—fertility and pregnancy, Dan Flavin's art, herbs in a glass jar, the thoughts and experiences generated on a walk, a small county in central California, ice, a small town of less than three thousand in Tulare County, lights, wives, seatbelts, and bodies. Bloch's poems remind us that words both are things and refer to things and, in that space between, the poem emerges, becomes evidence—is made to be seen. Andrew Wessels

Right Ovary, Left Ovary


In dressed-up lips
on a fat planet
in a corner of the belly
a drawn thing beside bone,
not a flat thing, it has to be
quiet here first. This sentence
is cluttered. I want to move
to another street. We lost
a crystal in the couch. Some of
the jars were labelled S
and some of the jars were labelled W.
The system sustains itself.

Dan Flavin’s fluorescent tubes
are commercially available.

I want to know all the things.
I want to know all the gods.




Fourth Walk

(after Lisa Robertson)

Don’t believe in writing as possession. Don’t
believe in bylines like slimming wear. Just something
in a tall grass, maybe.

Try this: store the herbs in a glass jar
to let the light out.
Some are thready, some are spiked, some are
woody, some are grainy, some are leafy. This
is a contract. “Green energy” was something
I heard on the television show in a moment of danger.

Because she wrote it down and it was used as evidence.
Then she spoke and it was recorded.
“Every book is a failure.” As colleges are landscaped,
harnessed within the context of their pert grasslands.

“We found ourselves repeatedly original.”
We felt it necessary to move the legs in rhythm
with all the other limbs in question.
Then we departed the path for the gymnasium,
the steel hips of the elliptical
machine rotating thru the air.

“All writing is argument.”
There was a hearing test in
one of the last chambers of the university.

You say car. You say house. You say dog. You say
ball. You say apple.


Syllables in their tired skins.
And then something breaking through the grass.




Tulare


Slab of stone on the midriff, the midriff
also made of stone, broken
and self-crushed. Fabric on the ice.
A metal wing in flames. This is all happening
right here, right in the parking lot. Anatomically.
Too much space between the objects;
stories; speech; a concrete floor
which is also a road. And then
the dress also breaking. This is all happening
while we move through the fields
in tilted lines toward incrementalism
and a weird sort of liquid thinking about
movement. In flight, ideas get armed: something
about juncture turns over in the mind before
the place where things meet. Up in the air now.
Ice breaking as a torrent of glass.




Strathmore


red light followed by white light

sun turning to snow

something else in the mouth now

new moisture in the vegetables now

dry docking the encounter

wives


just an idea of the other one

passing one window after the other one

airports are good places to cry


indivisible seatbelts

cash for passengers

the body will always be young

it is a punctuation device