For all I know, there might be some existing Contemporary Theory of Language & Poetics through which the poems of William Crawford can be read. In a deeper way than conventional reading. Or maybe I will have to invent one. Something that will have to do with openness, immanent modality, haunted time, evental structure, cadential gesture. A theory of poetry to approach lines that vibrate within equivocal dimensions, that form written situations and visions seducing through an early withholding of context.
Similar to what Derrida said: "...in breathless suspension, that is to say, alive, alert, vigilant, ready [prête] to be engaged down a wholly other path, to open up to whatever may come, listening faithfully, all ears, to that other speech."
So a reader, as if on the trail of a mystery, is led through Crawford's lines and stanzas. To see what is going on. Lured ahead with pleasure, owing to the compelling language and cadence.
All poems, I think, have this in common: the poem itself becomes a part of the life of the poem. An intrinsic self-reflexivity. A certain tension or dynamic arcs between what is being written and the writing of it. A poem is a metaphorm. Usually this is an unconscious thing for the poet. But when he or she is aware of this subtle irony, access is gained to rooms of different saying, to modes of unusual consciousness and art. I think Crawford, more than most, is aware of the poem as such becoming an implicit aspect of the poem's theme or emotion. With such an awareness, the moments of making exist in a field of strange energy and trembling potential.
Sometimes, the certainty of context or a definite framing remains elusive. I mentioned the word "openness" above. Some of Crawford's poems remain open, even as they ostensibly conclude. I also said "haunted time." The poem below gradually colors the temporality of its happening in wistful, surreal, nostalgic hues. And the cadence is varied, breathing, reverential.
Scars on the Raindrops
the timing was always bad
a dago red window
hemorrhaging heat
petechial scarlet spring
both Venice and Vienna
a glass eyed doll
limp on a balcony
suggesting scenes
dreamed by Fellini
Christmas lights
startled by the depth of their own blues
blinking in early May
waiting for the late darkness to descend
damn this mirror as it shatters
as you open your arms again
hoping for a song this time
comparing common scars
comparing common scars
on the raindrops
off-white and awful
set deep in azure
she blew songless bluebirds
out of the right side of her mouth
from the left
she blew penny wishes
blew haloes and grace notes
eyes so still and steady
unblinking
as she gave that confession
to you
her camera
she was quite the actress
her face exquisitely lit
on one side
the softness of shadow
on the other
a gentled moon
clair-obscure
that long flowing jawline
a dangling dolichoid dancer
her mouth a beautiful wound
a strawberry roan
ready to run
and you wished
she would blink just once
just close her eyes –
both blue flower and flame –
allowing rest
possibly dreams
her body was a limestone cathedral
and yours
a snake willing to swallow
anything before it.
From his book Fire in the Marrow
© William Crawford
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