Poems by Toby Olson for Uncertain Lenses by Paul A. Epstein

1
Perhaps the air will let
my little plane down
to sink into that imprint
on the land in the lens’s watermark
finally upon paper
which is a map impossible
of that size for understanding like
me and my mom like it was awesome
in a language inadequate
unto the darklight
and the warning light at the door
developing what can never be approached
in the shadow
under the shadow.

2
I saw a woman hidden in a lava
declivity
my little plane’s shadow
at the periphery near a bowl
of water stagnant in blue absence
of past activity or perhaps
it was a man impossible to be certain
in a language inadequate
from this altitude
was missing or lost love
that unspecified yearning
developing what can never be approached
as I was working my way
back to you.

3
Adventure of the shadow of my little plane
fixed on film and in the memory
of a hovering over sea
though it was land looking like waves
from this altitude
and higher still were daystars
also invisible in
that unspecified yearning
for a past deeper in some other anatomy
that I might be touching
though only through shadows
of myself behind uncertain lenses
in this constant droning
of the engine like the world’s turnings.

4
So then was traveling through smoke
above such archeology
which is a plundering
like me and my mom
like it was awesome figures
from a past inadequate
in this constant droning
of a language
that I might be touching
you on the earth bound up
in complexity ancient as memory
of a time fashioned from childhood
when we stepped fresh from the cockpit
at least it seemed that way.

5
Ice threatens before fire
under the warming
of my little plane’s shadow
and hearth light aglow there beckoning
you on the earth bound up
in such glacial imagination
could freeze into a fixture
to then percolate
in this heated nostalgia
at least it seemed that way
high up as I was
thinking to fall
down into animal memory
inhuman and finally alone.

6
Two thousand over big island skylight
thinking to fall
as much wish as a dream
of my little plane casket descending
into the orange eye
to then percolate
in the blue field
which is night’s hoard and endless
like it was awesome like
a gestural language without
me and my mom like turning
into a past absent
of all memory sufficient
unto nostalgia.

7
Like it was awesome like
a valley smoking its own anatomy
under which another surface
of a kind of skin
peeled back and revealing
yet another no longer
a mystery but a shadow
under a shadow
of all memory sufficient
unto the task forgotten
as I was drifting in the realization
that the lens too is a false framing
the world’s turnings myopic
in the watermark stain of my little plane.

8
Like me and my mom like were walking
through a desert and came into
a mystery but a shadow
to cool us as we looked up finding
the little plane casting a watermark
down upon us who were trying
hard to give vent to our
broken relationship in this wilderness
unto the task forgotten
as I imagined myself in the plane
my shadow a stain to provide like an awning
to give her some comfort
correct for a son or a daughter yet I
in another story entirely

9
We were looking out to a far horizon
like me and my mom were like inside
in another story entirely
a Rothko painting of the earth’s hues
in changing green and the sky’s blues
over Brittany coming
down upon us who were trying
to right our relationship in the cockpit
of my little plane
which of itself was fragility drifting
almost invisible in a soup
like Rothko’s paint like me and my mom
the whole sky was an awesome home
and we were at comfort in it.

10
Under the shadow of lava in the lens
perhaps a father awaits me as a lover
almost invisible in a soup
crowded with images existent only
in this sentimental and foolish eye
but to each his own
and the earth is beautiful if violent
and can be like me and my mom
like I can be a baby girl or boy again
and wouldn’t that be awesome
but like very painful
and I brought my eye back to the cockpit
only to find I was there and here
which of itself was fragility drifting.

11
Imagine the water a shadow figure
in this sentimental and foolish eye
the land a face seen from a satellite
youth the green beyond the ancient cuts
like plastic surgery
to bring youth back
and wouldn’t that be awesome
though having suffered for the gain
supposing violence
of time could be forestalled
before the figure under the shadow
becomes finally fixed
and the sea no more than a blue wash
spied in the lens.

12
The human past is dead
though this earth rise up violent
and beautiful red in the lens
to bring youth back
like me and my mom
before the figure under the shadow
is revealed
as a surface of blue only
to be peeled back revealing another
surface on which we can’t be stable
though continue the drift
in the lens of imagination
and if it be still of the human past
let it.

13
On the way always as a returning
as a surface of blue only
in the distance becomes water
beyond parching
as life giving
sustenance of the destination
is revealed
though only for this brief pausing
and not for satiation
which is temporary
respite in the journey
like me and my mom
like awesomely back there
at the beginning.

14
Finally upon paper
of past activity or perhaps
fixed on film and in the memory
above such archeology
in this heated nostalgia
which is night’s hoard and endless
under which another surface
the little plane casting a watermark
like me and my mom were like inside
but like very painful
though having suffered for the gain
to be peeled back revealing another
as life giving
on the way always as a returning.