The Tides #1
Of Sophia it might be said
That her fish are held in waves of glass
Like porcelains in a green swell.
They wait in their little alcoves of water
To fall, return and be delivered
“She might be waved, and held as abandoned”
To turn, and silence the winter with the spring.
She might be absent and speak as if turned
To kiss, to charge, the bitterness she encounters.
The green day darkens.
There are emeralds in her eyes.
And with her arrives this intermezzo:
where love has no home.
And he would build it one..
“simple, not grand, a place for reading,
and for friends”
where time might find rest
and turn to light
and misery find solace
in the occasional post-it note.
White halls and white ceilings
To contain regret
A bright blue lintel
And a bronze-gold horse.
And the future is waiting to kiss this silence.
“It pours into my head like a
tone of light, that has no place to be,
unless I welcome it to the table”
It waits for us in silence, and we must enter it in silence.
Humility. Reverence. Virtues remembered.
The death of the numinous all too near.
It must be held like an ember.
It must be fanned into new reminders.
And in the light of that light, the angels may fulminate.
From silence into silence. Love’s mouth to love’s ear.
The Tides #4
Love acquires itself in air.
It is the science of what is not seen or heard.
Love is the muse’s little bird,
That finds a random office
In a random theater.
A woman ‘s torso floats
It is Isis.
In the bestiary of her tears.
A flower comes. White, as if with cinnabar and a blotch of rose.
It moves slowly, tenuously, into open air,
to dissolve into something without desire
Clouds passing over and returning again.
You are not a woman, and no woman has claim to you.
Nor does any man have claim to you,
or any child,
Any mouse, or any tempest of fevers.
Alone you must wait,
until we have plumbed our disdain.
and become little panthers, little anonymous beasts
in hidden yellow fields.
Then we will discover again that we have always been inside you.
Sometimes, when I am sleeping, I get up and go downstairs and I’m there at the table laughing. turning the silence into an afterimage of water.
Sometimes, when I am awake I go upstairs, and there I am in bed, turning over in my nightmare and filing away snores.
Sometimes when I am alive, I wake up to the great stone tablets of my death,
And cannot help but chuckle at the insignia I have not refused to wear.
There are times when the photograph of a derelict engine is superimposed on my head, and I walk around all day, torn among the pistons,
And that is when I say”This is poetry, and I insist I have a right to it.
It is not a flock of mistaken birds that sigh above the fields in the figure of their ‘turning’ .”
Sometimes, when I am falling into the sea, as if I have driven there in an emptiness reminiscent of latency,
I see what is to be seen, and there is nothing for me, but the form of Strindberg, lost among his photographs, and the willfulness of his despair.
Then I know I have taken on the education of the visual. That as dolls without resonance we have lost our hope in pleasure.
The Tides #7
In the town where their was knowledge, there is only thunder.
In the town where there was hope there is a hard rain.
In the town where there were farms there are miles of cable.
In the town where there was death there is a penchant for sanitation.
In the town where there were weddings there is always a plan.
In the town where there was sorrow there is therapy alone.
In the town where there was light there is electricity.
In the town where there was laughter there is TV.
Beautiful mannequin, I am afraid for how you remember us. Our faces shadowed on your cheeks of rouge. . .
lie down and say nothing, it is almost dark,
The infinity of your eyes, the blank infinity in which we hope. . .
Outside a heaven of doors and windows . . .
“All there is and all there was and all there will ever be. . .”
The smoke rises.
It obscures the first star.
There is a woman in the sky, her body is like gauze
That has been bled through in the rain.
The blue around her eyes is a film of desire
that burns away to reveal a smile of pain,
a grimace her skeleton inhabits with misery,
the great figure floating above the minor city,
turning and diving above the outlying graves
mourning for the dead from the air where they escape
Into the fissures of the sunlight, and then the starlight overhead
bright fumbling apes
Without hope or memory. . . .
The sky shifts above the river’s nape
and the sorrow that is nature, having lost its thread
wanders off alone and mumbles to itself out of the silence
its interminable emptiness that is somehow a remembrance .
Having remembered, the few are unborn.
Having remembered, they cannot help but wander.
Having remembered, the dead position themselves.
They are starved for a whisper. They hope for a whisper. . .
Having remembered, she weeps.
Having remembered, they sleep.
The dead dissolve and wish for the fullness
That decorates desire with the inverse of its objects. . .
Having remembered, they feel the suffering of those they harmed,
Having remembered, they turn, in the winter of their sleep.
And are the dead that caress them and prepare for them, having been born from desire
Into the greater hope of losing the desire that desire finds.
“. . . His body. . .transparent, as though filled with light. . . “
as. . .”there came a time when for some days the soul departed altogether. . .”
“And he lay as if dead ... And when the soul returned it was as though the twelve streams of wisdom lived again .
There had come to him. . .an experience like that of Paul at Damascus.”