AND THEN...THEN...the last poem, "In the Designed Landscape (Garden of Planes)," was addressed to "rakers of sand." "O you rakers of sand, come," it begins, and the rakers are apostrophized a few more times (e.g., "it is time for you to come to me, I mean, to where I stand."
I think the more reasonable guess is that we are in a zen garden, where raking the sand (or gravel) is part of a meditative practice.
But because of all my recent preoccupation with Heidegger and Hölderlin also involves Paul Celan, I found myself thinking of the Celan poem that begins "NO MORE SAND ART, no sand book, no masters." What is sand art? Something we want no more of, obviously. but what makes art "sand art"? Since we cannot build on sand, since we cannot grow things in sand, "sand art" is that art which is just a dead end, which is sterile, which lends us no strength, no vision, no clarity. And the reader--let's say relentless book reviewer and Goodreads poster--who devotes time to this dead end, sterile, pointless art is...just raking sand. A raker of sand, c'est moi, is what I was thinking.
I will probably keep raking sand, but the appeal to come to where Waldrep stands resonates with me.
No comments:
Post a Comment