Topographies of Light

by David Rachlin

Overview

In Topographies of Light, the reader is taken on a journey from the high desert of the Southwest, across the Midwestern prairies, and along the North Sea coast. Rich imagery, real and imagined landscapes, and a final section of ekphrastic work help us navigate this deeply meditative and beautiful first volume by David Rachlin.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781477239773
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	07/06/2012
Pages:	88
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.21(d)

Read an Excerpt

Topographies of Light

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By David Rachlin

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 David Rachlin
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-3977-3

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Chapter One

    Topographies of Light

    Almonds and pistachios ground to a course meal
    Burnt umber singes on old parchments
    Candles burning in the inner depths of caves
    Damp trails through the wooded maple hills
    Evergreen oil smoothed into the dovetail joints of bridges
    Forests where the deer are shadows at dusk
    Gazelle tracks in the mud after the solar eclipse
    Haze and smoke rising from the volcanic rim
    Ink spots on leather-bound books of songs no longer sung
    Jasper, agates, and jade strung on crystal chains
    Kaleidoscopes where images appear as dreams
    Languages used by men who love old maps
    Memory of blue iris where they could never survive
    Night scents on the handles of worn suitcases
    Oak leaves attached to balsa wood with beaver quills
    Pebbles polished by time running out with the tide
    Quests for silver under the wingspan of doves
    Remaining warmth of chants
    Shadows of caribou on snowy shores of lakes
    Thin layers of mica peeled from the surface of the future
    Umbers and sepias washed ashore after a winter storm
    Veins of marble running through the night sky
    Water as steam and ice flowing from glacier-scarred plains
    Xylem tracking gold from the moon
    Yarns wrapped around the sounds of flight
    Zealous wings of butterflies on the yaw of wind


    Arrival

    What were you expecting from the desert?
    Mica alone is not a metaphor.
    Nor are the sudden saguaro blooms,
    the prickly pears, the tall chollas, or the rushing arroyos
    whose whispers meant words you couldn't hear.
    The long interstates from up north
    drew you along the indecipherable white lines.
    Dash dash dash as if someone spelled it out for you
    in a riddle you needed to unravel,
    monotonous and without meaning.
    Stopping in Tucumcari. The bowl of chili
    had a layer of grease,
    the screen door had tears where flies entered.
    The car dashboard insinuated the coming dark
    though you could only squint
    as the highway shimmered on for miles.


    Four ink drawings by Dan Namingha

    1.
    The mesa is a hovering place waiting to rise
    pauses in its current shape
    a black stone flute
    or the squared off abstraction of a feather
    dwelling in the music of air

    and lowers itself in the absence of wind
    to draw maps
    in the thin layer of sand
    where lizards lie
    and roadrunners cross
    and men and myths linger in heat.

    The other clouds of former mesas
    collect themselves in a stasis of air
    marking entry ways and landmarks of constellations.

    Beneath the earth another waits
    for the inspiration of light
    where seeds dream of water and of rain
    in the understated ceremony of time.

    2.
    Here is a distant storm
    like the one in Dürer's dream:
    the torrential flows of many great waters
    that struck the earth
    with terrific force and noise
    falling.

    Here above the desert
    the force is slow and measured:
    fingers point to earth
    yet never touch,
    evaporating when dream
    recedes into day.

    But the image is still there
    a rumbling under skin
    painted or inked in
    on paper

    or told in swift pen strokes
    or on the telephone
    or left in a manuscript
    or in watercolors in the desert

    to someone in another place
    dreaming of a different storm.

    3.
    You can see it in the colors
    of the land:

    earth plates unsettle
    and drift here.

    Colliding ochers and darkness
    form dream aquifers
    keeping the land buoyant
    and cushioned
    on the desert floor.

    Something goes up in moonlight
    like the surprised light
    of fireflies
    or a shooting star
    but darker—

    layer upon layer of stories
    seeking the way out
    mapping the sky.

    4.
    Five summits of shadows:
    each glazed in blank sky
    as if returning,
    finding their origin in clouds.

    This is the water cycle
    without rain
    where particulates
    of paintbrush run-off
    imitate weather.

    Floating hills
    above long draws of furrowed earth
    sparse vegetation
    and bird calls.


    Cliffs

    One can clearly see
    these steep walls measure time
    in different ways—

    that night and smoke drift through eons
    and stars mark old campsites
    where dreaming
    was the realm of earth.

    But then by day
    some paths are followed
    and others are not

    and cliffs are displaced
    by the wounded spells that bind us.

    Carvings in the rocks
    we call: mysteries in the wilderness

    where some of us gather strength
    while others drift away.


    Rain Over Truchas

    Truchas perches on hills where downward views
    are swaying tops of pines
    and valleys tucked in like blankets on an old bed.

    The clouds are purple, heavy and full over distant hills
    and rains are ready to fall back to earth
    as if water had spilled up from ancient craters
    longing to return.

    Cracks in the adobe are stretch marks of thirst
    and rocks seem unkempt and misplaced
    as old dogs linger in the welcome grays
    of a late afternoon.

    Memories rise rich in dust and wind
    where the High Road and crows watch the gathering waters
    and wait for the storm.


    El Malpaís

    We drove through the badlands
    higher each turn over a mile up
    where air is thin and clear and ice blue
    and saw the colors of earth change
    as the sun crossed overhead
    and saw the flash of light in each sandy patch
    observing the snake of road slinking its way north
    between the dotted piñon hills.

    The road leads now full circle to sun-baked walls
    and walkers and alley ways and narrow lanes
    where pageantry and prayer
    interrupt the eon-wide sameness:

    Bright flags and walking sticks of cedar tree branches
    prayers covered in black shawls and gray scarves
    sweatshirts tied around the waists
    sun visors and baseball caps
    rosary beads bouncing on closed fists
    the walkers faced the sand and wind head on
    believing in the chapel's healing power at Chimayó
    in the graying shadows of the Sangre de Cristos.


    Desert View 1

    These tawny hills
    rough surface of the old earth
    clouds can be black against the darkness.

    The long mesa a slit through the horizon
    as dark and longing
    as the wings of a magpie
    on a hot summer night.

    Soft fragments of earth
    fly in the infinity of migration
    and pause momentarily
    on the rungs of wooden ladders
    reaching
    for some sky
    some cloud
    some tall wall of solace
    where you thought blue
    was the only path to joy.


    Tomorrow I Will Drive to Abiquiu

    After meeting Luci Tapahonso

    Tomorrow I will drive to Abiquiu
    and marvel at the curving colors of sediments
    which form the cliffs.

    I will ride in my rental car and feel
    the elevation change as I drive along
    the Chama
    whose waters keep the cottonwoods alive

    and if it rains
    I will watch the colors of the sky change
    and watch the weeds and sage at the side of the road
    bend and sway in the wind.

    But before all of this I will make sure
    there is enough gas in my tank
    and water beside me
    and a guidebook on the back seat.

    It will be early
    when dew still lies in mourning of the night.

    It will be early
    when the noise of traffic
    is only a hush on Route 84.

    It will be early
    when blue wakes from its sandy origin
    and stirs beneath and above me.

    I will look for a place to pull off the road
    and leave the asphalt behind.
    Walk into the world
    and let the landscape become my only view:

    the rising walls of red and orange
    the leaning twists of juniper and sage.

    Everything before me will light up
    and become part of me.


    Abiquiu

    This was the village atop the low knoll
    up the road from the post office.
    A humble arrangement of adobe houses
    barely white curtains behind unstained window frames
    a touch of blue here and there,
    but chipping and raw
    and the dirt road around to the right:
    A church—
    It was a funeral.
    A big guy in a Stetson hat 'n big boots
    smoked a cigarette and stared at us between sideways puffs
    and one foot up on the limousine fender
    while the mourners remained behind black emptiness
    of the open wooden door.

    Driving along the stony road
    with our out of state anticipation,
    I held my camera tight as if guarding a secret.
    I wondered what it was like
    when the inner folds of blooming jimson weed
    were the attractions of brilliance
    and the red and orange cliffs
    mapped out the path
    of the blue sky
    high above where ladders reached
    for the moon
    where sun-blanched bones
    lay as landmarks of the desert earth.


    After Reading Momaday

    I too would have given Georgia
    a smooth stone:
    one that would only create
    a dull thump on the clay floor
    so as not to distract
    the silence of uneasy conversation

    or detract from the future poems
    I'd write
    after seeing the old ladder reach
    for the roof
    or seeing the moon in gibbous phase
    or an animal bone
    meticulously placed for closer inspection.

    I have my own windowsill of wonders:
    the glass specimen jars filled with pebbles
    collected on mountain tops
    and at far shores where limpets dwelled
    in cold seas
    and smooth stones of jasper
    telling stories in their zigzag lines
    and shades of illumination.

    One of my stones I would give her
    to soften the rough hands that embraced
    the juniper hills and Padernal.

    A smooth stone that she would laugh at
    and say: yes, you know my secret.


    Plaza Blanca, Abiquiu

    For Linda Hogan


    Ordinary,
    this magic:
    like that cool wind blowing down from the White Place
    touching stones along the arroyo.
    The two of us face this rocky path
    edged on one side by shadowed ledges
    of hoodoo sand
    on the other by stiff grasses
    leaning in the wind.
    Which rock calls out to you from this mystery
    which one says its name?
    I know you'd like this one, one of us says,
    holding a rock in a warm palm.
    We sit talking of luminosity and words
    and imagine the next poem of mica and sandstone
    and dream of story.
    Ordinary,
    this magic of stones, of paths, of sand, of wind.


    Inner Courtyard

    That wall with a door in it was something I had to have.
    Georgia O'Keeffe


    This inner wall,
    this hard ground,
    these slanted shadows,
    this black window,
    these silent vigas,
    this cow skull,
    this covered well,
    that door, that door, that door,
    this inner sanctum,
    this inner light,
    this sparkling sand.


    One Small Rock

    Gray, something like the wing-gray of gulls,
    found high off the Chama
    and shadowed by the yellow of cottonwoods.
    Indented across one edge with small pencil-point dots
    white and reminiscent
    of forgotten stars, lines, curves, and narrow channels—
    map-like in its mystery,
    leading us where water had conjured forms
    long ago.
    One small rock smoothed into my hand
    after seeing it lie among kin at the corner of a cliff,
    now mine on a windowsill
    among wooden tops, stones,
    and a clear marble with its gauzy filaments,
    it rests again in the sun.


    Walking Rain Near Taos Mountain

    Our car races back to Taos as the clouds darken—
    monsoon season is upon us deepening its lush atmosphere
    above miles and miles of sea green sage.
    Along the road, the gravel sings and plaits our dreams
    of the coming storm
    where wind rises from the tires and sings
    and rain blurs into wisps of evaporated days.
    Walking rain holds local mysteries
    in never touching the earth,
    hovering in its beauty,
    waiting for a gust to change its shape
    if only momentarily as the sky lowers itself to dusk.
    Perhaps this storm will be the last storm.
    Perhaps the clouds will rise again on the shadows of birds
    and pass the bridges and roads as the old routes
    are uncovered of their dust.


    For That Young Man in Taos

    You jumped from train top to train top
    playing plate tectonics on Turtle's back,
    letting your long hair whip behind you
    like the tail of a dark comet.
    And jumped across narrow spaces between buildings
    looking for meaning in the rushing updrafts of city heat.
    But now, years later in this high desert
    your motions are deliberate elevations of hands
    as if smoothing time to mark the cadence
    of your soft speech as the clouds move over the hills.
    You hold pages of poems in your upturned palms
    as if holding the sacred
    or perhaps as an offering
    to whichever stars saved you from falling.


    Five Retablos


    1.
    A dusty light falls on the board
    painted with your sorrow and sand
    and some flecks of mica reflect your eyes
    while you watch
    while you wonder
    while all the prayers of your ancestors
    do you no good
    and fade like this wood fades
    in the light of the cool walls
    as if something rises from it
    and blinds you.

    2.
    Someone enters the room
    and you don't look around.
    Perhaps the person cares deeply for what you stare at
    and you don't want to know
    for they might be crying out to the emptiness
    they haven't yet fathomed
    so dark and empty
    like an abandoned campsite in the desert.

    3.
    Brown, ocher, dun, thin grade of tin
    letting ecstasy rust and corrode—
    kiss it if you must and see how your life changes
    or devote your life to the air around you
    where tall Douglas fir trees fill the air
    with the sweet scent of bark
    and walking rain rests in the darkening sky.

    4.
    Scratch the surface of a retablo
    and find pigments of dream
    but beware of thorns.

    5.
    Take your painted board outside
    and stand on a hill
    watch the land rise and fall
    where you listen to the wind
    which ripples like a mountain stream
    before the rains begin
    and wash away all the pigments
    to the waiting earth.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Topographies of Light by David Rachlin Copyright © 2012 by David Rachlin. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Topographies of Light....................1
Arrival....................2
Four ink drawings by Dan Namingha....................3
Cliffs....................7
Rain Over Truchas....................8
El Malpaís....................9
Desert View 1....................10
Tomorrow I Will Drive to Abiquiu....................11
Abiquiu....................13
After Reading Momaday....................14
Plaza Blanca, Abiquiu....................16
Inner Courtyard....................17
One Small Rock....................18
Walking Rain Near Taos Mountain....................19
For That Young Man in Taos....................20
Five Retablos....................21
Rocks I....................23
Rocks II....................24
A High Desert Collage....................25
Lost Languages....................26
Poems for My Father....................27
Houses....................30
Birch Trees....................31
Petroglyph Inventory, Moab, Utah....................32
Desert View II....................33
A Midwestern Convocation....................34
Short Manifest of Genocide....................35
Making More Ruts in the Mud....................36
Signal Mountain, Wyoming....................37
Prairie....................38
An Inland Periplus....................39
Clouds....................40
Maps....................41
Shrine 1....................42
Shrine 2....................43
Shrine 3....................45
Shrine 4....................46
Shrine 5....................48
Shrine 6....................49
View of Alkmaar, North Holland....................50
Panoramic View of the Amstel Looking towards Amsterdam....................51
Rusting Angel....................52
Meditations on Vermeer....................53
The Goldfinch....................56
Wanderer at the Edge of the Sea....................57
Two Men Observing the Moon....................58
Notes on the Poems....................59
Acknowledgements....................63