Add to Collection
About

About

ABBANDONATA is an ongoing story about a woman whose companion goes on a trip and after years away, still has not returned, much like the famed se… Read More
ABBANDONATA is an ongoing story about a woman whose companion goes on a trip and after years away, still has not returned, much like the famed separation of Penelope and Odysseus. This story will be presented in serial installments over time. ABBANDONATA will incorporate photographs, video, animation and writing to various degrees in a way that is complimentary and makes sense to logic of the story. This project is an evolving project, and will not observe traditional boundaries or relationships between the media used for it. As always, I will approach this work solely with the intent to be true to my own vision, and use whatever it takes to communicate that in the best, and hopefully most engaging, way possible. For more about this project, please visit my website at: odilonvert.com/about/about-abbandonata/ 6/1/13 Read Less
Published:
Inland
 
by Chase Twichell
 
Above the blond prairies,
the sky is all color and water.
The future moves
from one part to another.
 
This is a note
in a tender sequence
that I call love,
trying to include you,
but it is not love.
It is music, or time.
 
To explain the pleasure I take
in loneliness, I speak of privacy,
but privacy is the house around it.
You could look inside,
as through a neighbor's window
at night, not as a spy
but curious and friendly.
You might think
it was a still life you saw.
 
Somewhere, the ocean
crashes back and forth
like so much broken glass,
but nothing breaks.
Against itself,
it is quite powerless.
 
Irises have rooted
all along the fence,
and the barbed berry-vines
gone haywire.
Unpruned and broken,
the abandoned orchard
reverts to the smaller,
harder fruits, wormy and tart.
In the stippled shade,
the fallen pears move
with the soft bodies of wasps,
and cows breathe in
the licorice silage.
 
It is silent
where the future is.
No longer needed there,
love is folded away in a drawer
like something newly washed.
In the window,
the color of the pears intensifies,
and the fern's sporadic dust
darkens the keys of the piano.
 
Clouds containing light
spill out my sadness.
They have no sadness of their own.
 
The timeless trash of the sea
means nothing to me—
its roaring descant,
its multiple concussions.
I love painting more than poetry.