Poems

Tjanting

Not this.
What then ?
I started over & over. Not this.
Last week I wrote "the muscles in my palm so sore from halving the rump roast I cld
barely grip the pen." What then ? This morning my lip is blisterd.
Of about to within which. Again & again I began. The gray light of day fills the
yellow room in a way wch is somber. Not this. Hot grease had spilld on the stove top.
Nor that either. Last week I wrote "the muscle at thumb's root so taut from carving
that beef I thought it wld cramp." Not so. What then? Wld I begin? This morning my lip
is tender, disfigurd. I sat in an old chair out behind the anise. I cld have gone about
this some other way.
Wld it be different with a different pen ? Of about to within which what. Poppies grew
out of the pile of old broken-up cement. I began again & again. These clouds are not apt
to burn off. The yellow room has a sober hue. Each sentence accounts for its place. Not
this. Old chairs in the back yard rotting from winter. Grease on the stove top sizzled &
spat. It's the same, only different. Ammonia's odor hangs in the air. Not not this.

(Ron Silliman. Tjanting. Great Barrington: The Figures, 1981. 11-12.)