Daniela Elza & Arlene Ang/Harold Rhenisch
We both continued this process of shuffling and (in) movement, of back and forth over (in) email, and within two days of tossing it back and forth we (were) had (by) a poem that was larger than we were (was). Most of what was (is) exchanged between us was (is) the poem back (and forth). Not much else (in terms of explanations). Now that we have (are) found(ing) a way to balance (begin) form with (in) improvisation, we will be writing (written by) many more.
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"When there are no places left for us,
we'll still talk in order to make things true:
Not only the years before we were born,
not only the names of our dead,
but also this life."
—Anne Michaels
(from the poem "What the Light Teaches")
what fills our footsteps
today the clouds move faster than I can swallow
apologize for their long vowels of blue.
over the radio the voices never stop fighting—
their asphalt arguments scar across
sage country deer paths slopes of pine.
we leave behind dust animation against
the horizon speed through a new century
in expensive aerodynamic diagnoses.
powerless as condensation— memory
on this side of the windshield drips
as a throat would cry. when
there are no places left for us
what are we if not separable?
throwing disturbance shadows.
we'll still talk in order to make things
true borrow our velocity from crows
watch their hunger hurtle through
not only the years before we were born
but the moment my hands touched your face
or the moment they curled back in the wind
as you turned away— left not only
the names of our dead but also
the trees scratched off like scabs
the air — a living wound.
we write ourselves into relentless flights
track mud on white pages of
family trees profit margins sheets of music
while a fragile midday quartermoon
threads longing through our umbi(b)lical eye
attempting this life this slit of sky.
--A collaboration between Arlene Ang and Daniela Elza
Spiritual Photography
Three names is too many for anyone
in this world, says this world.
Three names is how many names God has in his kingdom
of ivory and crystal: Yahweh, Christ, and the fog,
says the fog. We proceed by quotations. Words
wrapped in grave cloths become
our own night robes, wrap
around the chimney, freeze on the glass.
Insistence sketches grass blades into
stillness, flowers into longing, delicate stars.
What's the difference we are. Small pieces of
God caught in our laughter. We say
we carry his name mostly in vain except
when we freeze into the frame of a window.
Watch the mist pause in the elbow of a mountain.
Are taken by a fan of light.
Sudden light finds us
here, on the edge of a stream. Where trees
lean in for this
one moment. Our word is expectant,
wrapping around spires
which is what? German for
the tip of a blade of grass. and again the Fog
that folds itself around the chimney
freezes on the pane in its multitude of fractal
names. Who are our own mothers
and grace, says the night. but for practical purposes
priests draw water over our faces
and like photographs our faces wrinkle up
turn sour turn sour
turn sour under their grave hands.
--A collaboration between Harold Rhenisch and Daniela Elza
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Daniela Elza has lived on three continents and crossed numerous geographic and cultural borders. Her work has appeared in more than 40 publications, most recently in Vallum, Matrix, ditch, educational insights, One Ghana One Voice, and 4 poets (Mother Tongue Publishing, 2009). Forthcoming: in the BluePrintReview, The Trumpeter, and The New Orphic Review. Daniela lives with her family in Vancouver. http://strangeplaces.livingcode.org/