<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The rhythmic whole is now perceptible
\nin the still of the turbulent forest<\/p>\n\n\n\n
where life em-barks, grows, expands, creeps, crooks, decays,
\nblooms, breaks, bruises, fruits, falls, twists, pales, putrefies,
\nis soaked, clutched, sapped, mossed, tossed, gnawed, eaten, eating,
\npulsates, regenerates<\/p>\n\n\n\n
where the pines rise and rack
\nwhere the dark trunks tumble upon the dusky stones
\nwhere the leaves proliferate greener, deeper
\nwhere the grass exposes its objects, desires<\/p>\n\n\n\n
where the centre is the circle
\nwhere the contradictions meet and disappear
\nwhere wood, soil, rock, land, swamp, water, sky
\ninterpenetrate each other and transfigure
\nwhere the bright light illuminates the colours
\nwhere the life-forms inanimate, animate
\nconglomerate, gyrate, sublimate
\nwhere a steady silence conducts the forestrial orchestras
\nwhere a ceaseless flow of tranquility emanates from the vortex<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The altar is a revelation
\nNature reframes life in art<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Look at its core for a moment Time mellows over the woods The mushroom sky swells like a gossamer dome It rises like the waves stirring the graphite strokes! <\/p>\n\n\n\n The clouds arise and fade In them dissolve The mind makes its materials Time becomes the Prairie sky The house and the clump present me I have two sets of memories The first are the reminiscences Second are the recollections of the homesteads and farms Nothing survives the vastness without a cuddle The fence posts are old As I close my eyes, Waves make the world they shine to perhaps at least it is not human interpretation<\/p>\n\n\n\n it is just everything when into the soul<\/p>\n\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Arthur Lismer\u2019s Bud Altar, Georgian Bay The rhythmic whole is now perceptible in the still of the turbulent forest where life em-barks, grows, expands, creeps, crooks, decays, blooms, breaks, bruises, fruits, falls, twists, pales, putrefies, is soaked, clutched, sapped, mossed, tossed, gnawed, eaten, eating, pulsates, regenerates where the pines rise and rack where the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":4378,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1015","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1015","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1015"}],"version-history":[{"count":23,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1015\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4987,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1015\/revisions\/4987"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4378"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1015"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1015"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue25\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1015"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nit stares back at you <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\nLionel LeMoine FitzGerald\u2019s Clouds over the Woods<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n
\nswaying towards the Autumn
\nA lush wind glides beneath the clouds
\nthrilling the earth and the trees<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nlapping the landscape<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nthat may roar and crash
\nor explode<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\ninto the dreams
\nleaving some imprints behind
\nin the memory-scapes<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nthe one who was pursued
\nthe one in pursuit<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nfrom the spectres thrown into vision
\nThey manifest in void, on a canvas
\nas a world etched above a world
\na world layered beneath another
\na world inside a world<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nstriding over the grasslands<\/p>\n\n\n\nBarker Fairley\u2019s Prince Edward County, Clump Behind<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n
\nwith a singular problem:
\nWhat do I see when I see them?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nboth distinct and separate
\nyet stubbornly concomitant
\nand trespassing each other<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nof the village houses by the narrow dirt trails
\namong the layers of terraced rice fields
\nA hill thwarts the cold air from the Himalayas<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nthat move as fast as the Via Rail and disappear in a blink
\nalong the miles and miles of land
\nThe trees, bushes and shrubs huddle like a hill
\nblocking the view, breaking the wind<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nAmidst a lonesome farm, the house nurtures
\na hearth of memories, care, and warmth<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nThe sky emulates the earth\u2019s textured tints and hues
\nAt the chimney, the emotions of the house blend
\nwith those of the clump
\nHouse endures, house hopes
\nIt waits for a return<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nthe vivid contours resurface\u2014
\nthe pure forms of all things
\ntransfigured by their spirits<\/p>\n\n\n\nEmily Carr\u2019s Yellow Moss<\/em><\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n
\nlike some small strings and tiny threads
\nflow, flowed, flowing<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nthose eyes
\nthat see in a particular way
\na look is an interpretation
\nsome may say<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nnot always<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nnot when the moss
\nis looking at you<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nas it is<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nstirs<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nthe moss glosses<\/p>\n\n\n\n