Poem: Daniel Bosch

Illo for Daniel Bosch's poem.


March 28, 1941
There is room
In the Ouse
All one has
To do is
Take it take
A step just
One at first
The mud will
Hold wet stones
Will glue thick
Soles all Ouse
Has to do
Is rise not
All at once
Black mass just
Part for whole
None at rest
All one has
To do is
Walk on wet
Soles take steps
Rise walk walk
As if healed
Reach touch one’s
Own bones the
Still warm stones
Sewn in the
Ouse will make
Room for all
For all there
Is but one
Must go one
At a time
The Ouse leans
In too hard
All mouth all
Want raw teeth
Too hard to
Close too close
To take in
One by one
The slow cold
Mud takes hold
Rib by slick
Rib Ouse wets
One’s legs one’s
Waist one’s chest
Soaks arms in
Black mud there
Is room and
It is one’s
Own space dark
Studs stone bone
Joists thick lath
Bright wet word
Nails some long
Known not to
Float but drown
Ouse makes one’s
Room takes one’s
Shape its still
Face cloud by
Cloud Ouse yet
Not Ouse one’s
Wet tongue tastes
Dank roots one
Gums each stone
Each inch one
Drinks pounds tons
Flow past yes
Ouse makes room
Yes the sea
Pulls yes the
Kite tugs yes
The wet spool
Gives way all
Ouse does is
Choose its quick
Brown mud jumps
Bed to bed
Shoes slowed by
Blood by lung
By head by
God of course
Yes one must
Take the next
Step there is
So much more
Room than one
Knows what to
Do with why
Would one jump
The bed’s edge
The low bar
Lit by fang
By nail by
Wet fur by
Floods long past
Why not go
Deep such troughs
Don’t ask is
All this mine
Don’t ask how
Much do my
Sewn stones weigh
Don’t ask what
Is the Ouse
If not just
Once and for
All just walk
In just lean
In you will
See in Ouse
There is the
Room one needs
“Walk” was first published in The Metric, Vol. 1, No. 4 (2013).

Daniel Bosch is teaching a seminar called “Poetics via Translation” this spring at Emory University. He is Senior Editor at Berfrois. A limited number of fair copies of “Walk” in the author’s hand on fine paper are available for purchase. Price upon request.

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