Reading the Tarot: Nine Villanelles

Jared Carter

Copyright © 2005 by Jared Carter


Published by The New Formalist Press


Cover art: The Sítio at Nazaré, photograph by Jared Carter
Author photo: At Alcobaça, photograph by Diane Carter


XHTML & CSS design by Leo Yankevich

Reading the Tarot

The way of finding what we cannot know
is never far. From shadows gathering now,
things darkly come together in the flow
of moments—fate that lies above, below,
behind, before. The cards, laid out, endow
the way of finding. What we cannot know
is unconcealed, but seldom tried; to grow
within is why we seek without. Allow
things darkly come together in the flow
to reach their elemental state, and show—
as water always levels true—the Tao.
The way of finding what we cannot know
leads to subversion; in that undertow,
it is the self that one must disavow.
Things darkly come together in the flow,
boundaries dissolve. And in the afterglow,
the drawing of that veil toward which we bow,
the way of finding what we cannot know—
things darkly come together in the flow.

Dunes

Drifting mackerel sky. In a slight breeze,
patches of sunlight here and there in the grass.
Shadows, moving ahead among the trees,
add and subtract, divide and carry: fees
quickly owed, as quickly forgiven. Vast,
drifting mackerel sky. In a slight breeze,
out far, whiteness begins to stroke the sea’s
long, dark hair, leaving, with each caress,
shadows moving ahead. Among the trees,
at random moments, synchronicity
of light and breaking wave. Diaphanous,
drifting mackerel sky in a slight breeze,
going nowhere. Above the clover, bees
hover, lose their way, find it at last—
shadows moving ahead, among the trees.
All this written and rewritten, to please
no one in particular. The hours pass,
drifting. Mackerel sky, in a slight breeze,
shadows moving ahead among the trees.

Tapestry

Just ahead, in the twilight, beckoning,
only a little farther now, and you’ll see—
the pathway quite beyond all reckoning.
Nothing before, when days were lengthening,
taught us that such a simple path could be
just ahead in the twilight, beckoning.
Now, as part of our ceaseless wandering,
we come to stand at the edge of the sea—
the pathway quite beyond all reckoning.
The sun’s beneath the waves. Gulls, hovering,
float motionless in the night wind’s lee.
Just ahead, in the twilight, beckoning
with their swoops and dives, their arrowing
over the spray, they point to the mystery—
the pathway quite beyond all reckoning.
There – through a break in the dunes, clattering
with dry reeds – fringed by the sky’s tapestry
just ahead, in the twilight, beckoning—
the pathway quite beyond all reckoning.

Anaesthetic

Can you feel it now? Or are you dreaming,
friend—and is the water clear, its motion
centered in the vortex of this streaming?
Once I thought the surface would be gleaming
always, constant in its bright commotion—
can you feel it now, or are you dreaming?
Gradually the dark sun—not the greening,
daytime star—distilled a subtle potion,
centered in the vortex of this streaming.
Long I drank its bitterness, its meaning
took inside, until a dizzying notion —
can you feel it now, or are you dreaming?—
welled within me. Then all those demeaning
years were rain that falls upon an ocean
centered in the vortex of this streaming.
Past reflection, deep within the seeming,
whirling pool, stands the pure emotion.
Can you feel it now, or are you dreaming,
centered in the vortex of this streaming?

Capoeira

Moving in the way that honey flows, falling
out of phase, catching itself, gleaming
in the light—rising to the voices calling,
caxixi and harsh berimbau forestalling
bitter days—they dance without redeeming,
moving in the way that honey flows. Falling,
feinting, lashing out—two jaguars brawling,
held at bay—they blur into a dreaming
in the light. Rising to the voices calling
down through acacia leaves – monkeys squalling,
shrill macaws—they show the morning teeming,
moving in the way that honey flows. Falling
clouds of butterflies, caiman sprawling
near the bank, the halcyon river streaming
in the light, rising. To the voices calling,
worlds shelter in these slow, enthralling
steps, these clapping hands, this streaming—
moving in the way that honey flows, falling
in the light, rising to the voices calling.

Trompe l’Oeil

This darkness waiting on a winding stair
spreads out a net to catch the eye. Set low
within a realm of bright, unfathomable air,
a flight of parquet steps mounts up to where
a doorway opens in the mind. To know
this darkness waiting on a winding stair,
to see the inlaid pieces form a pair
of shutters, while a curtain seems to blow
within a realm of bright, unfathomable air,
do not reach out. Another step could tear
the fabric, scatter all the lines that flow.
This darkness waiting on a winding stair
provides no purchase, has no way to share
except to lead the viewer on. To go
within a realm of bright, unfathomable air
is to be beckoned far, beyond the glare
of clever thought, until the patterns show
this darkness waiting on a winding stair
within a realm of bright, unfathomable air.

Daguerreotype

Still unobtainable, except in dreams,
a presence lingering, a sense of place.
Here in this room, somewhere beneath the eaves,
I sort through steamer trunks and album leaves
and shake out scraps of ribbon, silk, and lace
still unobtainable, except in dreams.
Outside, rain slanting through the willow trees
converges on the roof, and slows the pace
here in this room, somewhere beneath the eaves.
I find the frame, a silvered face that sees
across the centuries and fills the space
still unobtainable, except in dreams,
with sharp desire. I would reach out, and seize
those hands, and cancel time with my embrace,
here in this room, somewhere beneath the eaves,
but there is no response. An endless frieze
of days unfurls, enveloping that face
still unobtainable—except in dreams,
here, in this room, somewhere beneath the eaves.

By-Thomery

Untraceable, from somewhere in the past,
our visit to the limestone-walled chateau.
I see it, for the first time and the last—
the rusted iron gate, the drifts of mast
beneath the trees, the broken heads in rows,
untraceable from somewhere in the past.
We try the latch, and walk along the vast
and cluttered corridors. The Mistral blows.
I see it, for the first time and the last,
curtains in tatters, strands of cobweb fast
against the paneled walls. The sunlight—slow,
untraceable, from somewhere in the past—
is fathoms deep within the mackerel glass,
the mirror in which our faces do not show.
I see it, for the first time and the last,
and turn to watch the gauze reflections cast
about the room. The memory overflows,
untraceable. From somewhere in the past
I see it for the first time and the last.

Envoi

When all is done, the words remain in rows
where you last left them—like some hidden pelf
beyond the swirls of time, the falling snows
of other years. Often you think you’ll go
take down a book, and find, almost by stealth,
when all is done, the words remain. In rows
and lines they’ll flicker, then begin to glow
and come alive, as though restored to health
beyond the swirls of time. The falling snows
are deep, and bitter the wind that blows
across the drifted pathways of the self.
When all is done, the words remain in rows
you’ll try again someday. They may bestow
a blessing on your quest for inner wealth
beyond the swirls of time, the falling snows.
The choice awaits you still—in that repose
among the books forgotten on the shelf.
When all is done, the words remain in rows
beyond the swirls of time, the falling snows.

About the author

Jared Carter’s poems have appeared in numerous hard-copy and online periodicals. His fourth collection, Cross this Bridge at a Walk, a group of narrative poems, is forthcoming from Wind Publications in Kentucky. His web site contains poems, stories, essays, interviews, photographs, and links to many other sites featuring his work.