A REPORT ON THE MYSTERY OF THINGS
On the Mystery of Things
I wasn’t afraid anymore, I wanted it back. To climb into it to see where it went. To list its physical attributes: long limbs, tail or no tail. To look into its eyes. To follow it weaving through the trees. How then the forest turned in on itself. Breathing out ferns and small bodies of water.
They almost can’t help it. Almost can’t stay here on the ground. Their insides are lighter than air or quick-moving as thought. When one births a bloody fawn in a forest you’ll never see. For a moment the ground is there to catch it. And then they run.
From 20,000 Years Ago
We met in a cave. First a small pile of glowing bones then the bones rose up like mist. Like a million small insects hoisting each smooth object. Then just the smell of it. Then its presence at the mouth. The sound of its claw on stone before sleep.
From the Sun
What’s important is that you’re standing in windy marshes. That someone is with you. That you say yes and point to the flock of geese above. And then another flock of geese moving toward it. At first far off and then closer. This is something like full-exposure.
I am floating out to sea. Another way to say it: the lambs down the road are crying and the girl next door cries. Sea creatures float around me. My soft skin is taking on water. What this is– temporary island, a small salty window.
On Being Here
I’m walking down a road. It changes. I’m counting all the syllables and I’m singing. There are waves coming out of my mouth and wonderment is the reason. Are we face up or down? Are we taller than grasses? Are we hidden in an envelope? Are we twisted? Twisted again?
From a Half-Mown Field
First the way the lightning bugs in June. The glittering grasses and dense dirt. Cunning is not a word I wouldn’t use. The way I take these fallen apples. Sacrificing some to the deer and some to the insects, voracious. I don’t ask you to lie down with me. I demand it.
On Lying Down and Waiting
Keep weaning yourself from want and then six tiny deer appear by a hill of rocks. You tell them you’re not that kind of clever. Have a good laugh and then something gold. Something with the characteristics of levitation. It’s hard to tell in this spindly light.
Don’t ask me to open up this ribcage. These long dark passages. Despite the years and contradictions. Despite the weights and measures and the forces of gravity: my uninjured body rises. It is the one thing I do for joy.
From a Bridge
There are trees everywhere and then just walking through. They let me weave and the chickadees making two kinds of sound. Standing at the between point trying to locate myself (in space). Touching alone doesn’t solve this. This is both imagination and reality.
When I say house I mean ocean. When I say moving up the mountain together, I mean us. There were seasons and there was so much water. There were herds of animals lumbering in great clouds of dust. That happened. I was there and I saw it.
On Two Moose
Whether they were actually there. Whether walking single file. What I saw was the light dimming. So slowly there was silence. And did I stop the car and gently idle. Did they look up, yes. Two dark objects and a halo. And how long did it take. And was there weeping.
Liane Tyrrel is a visual artist and poet who writes about a haunted childhood home in her manuscript in progress titled "Call and Response". Her poems also speak to memory and disappearance, connection and disconnection, bodies, animals both living and dead, and the woods and fields in NH where she lives. https://www.lianetyrrel.com/