Lotus in the millpond are an image of composition, like swans
—–or some comparable waterfowl with long thin neck
and propensity for reflection, or for what passes as reflection but is
—–unburdened of its object. There is a stillness and a motion
all at once. They are a gift from heaven. They reverberate
—–with presence like periscoping showerheads in mantis green
or fluffy pink eyeballs suspended midflight. They are a laugh
—–provoked not by vanity or mockery but happiness in light, as if
against all likelihood. Even the air is moving up
—–around these flowers which—anchored in the muck and wriggling
on snakelike stalks amid leaves like floating platters the size
—–of manhole covers—act as subwoofers in a system
wired to someplace endless, someplace sheerer than this ghost
—–of a reservoir that fed the waterwheel that powered the iron mill
long since converted into condos. The lotus boom the low frequencies
—–that recruit large pools of neurons in the listener to lock
the brain into another rhythm, which is to say that they relieve one
—–of oneself. It’s hard to account for but easy to fathom,
which derives from the Old English for the length of outstretched arms,
—–so that to take the measure of a thing is also simply to embrace it.
Timothy Donnelly’s fourth book of poems, Chariot, will be published this spring by Wave Books. He teaches at Columbia University and lives in Brooklyn.
