Aby Kaupang

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Within the Chambered Nautilus


sensuous & deep divine


{which I did not even turn my mind to}


                           & physical—


                        {this angle has surprised me!}


more than the hand of god, Rodin

& eliciting impulsive cursives & fume


my God! what package of speechless

clarity of vision—


such physique the pain & abstract of living erotic




we three spent two hours    & you

leaning towards mysticism



             {but Rivera sd. “is he ill?  is he very




I had no physical thought—never have.

Others get from them


{sd. Ellie Faure would go wild over these}


                        what they will bring

                        to them—evidently they do!

the stark beauty a lens can so exactly render



subject & matter

count so little in the ultimate reaction


two negatives of kelp in the morning

a chaos of convulsions


yrs. later in “photographic history”

I “capture”     they say      these finest understandings

& expression


I find—


the greatest joy in finding things composed

not my personal arrangement


but  All ReadyNatured.



even the rocks have lace-like delicacy 

house of blue eggshell beyond




house of blue shell beyond the wall      upward rise of chapel beams      house of air      light      speckled un-reached height of nest  next  ness-ness      house of solution


fluttering of solidarity      house of my youth becoming the youth of my child      house of grain and sandstone     flame house   innumerable doors      I acquiesce      house of our grandfathers reborn      house of the forward face     


house of space       house of fern falling      blush of delineated beasts     


house of expansion      house of moat      house of becoming of sword in the sand and the sword in the line and the sword over my head replaced by ladders and feathers and soft soft  coos

                                                           they sing to me     


house of black rivers of sleep’s sleep in the underground caves of my body      house of real acres fantabulous dalmatians and toads in real gardens I can feed them   I can feed you


real daughter real son real husband in fantastic foothills of being expounded house expansive self  of your body real nest real robins of wakefulness mindfulness real fingers with wings in white-space in poems      vibratory voices singeing  toasting the multipheries     



house of sand and soil      rock and sandandstone      rain and aloe for the heart of thee      house of arbor and airlight     house of long legged neighborly dogs dripped in gold light and gold fur     


house of the gold egg hatching      house unknown rising lofty my light and my lovely my dozen winged    you my make house


ABY KAUPANG, author of Little “g” God Grows Tired of Me (SpringGun Press, 2013), Absence is Such a Transparent House (Tebot Bach, 2011) and Scenic Fences | Houses Innumerable  (Scantily Clad Press, 2008), has had poems appear in  FENCE, La Petite Zine, Dusie, Verse, Denver Quarterly, The Laurel Review, Parthenon West,  PANK, Aufgabe, 14 Hills, Interim, Caketrain, & others.  She holds master’s degrees in both Creative Writing and Occupational Therapy from Colorado State University.  She lives in Fort Collins with the poet, Matthew Cooperman, and their two children. More information can be found at www.abykaupang.com