Thought is Surrounded by a HaloShow me the order of the world,
the hard-edge light of this-is-so prior to all experience and common to both world and thought, no model, but the truth itself. Language is not a perfect game, and if it were, how could we play? The world's more than the sum of things like moon, sky, centre, body, bed, as all the singing masters know. Picture two lovers side by side who sleep and dream and wake to hold the real and imagined world body by body, word by word in the wild halo of their thought. |
Triste, TristeIn the space between love and sleep
when heart mourns in its prison eyes against shoulder keep their blood-black curtains tight. Body rolls back like a stone, and risen spirit walks to Easter light; away from its tomb of bone, away from the guardian tents of eyesight, walking alone to unbearable light with angelic gestures. The fallen instruments of its passion lie in the relic darkness of sleep and love. And heart from its prison cries to the spirit walking above: 'I was with you in agony. Remember your promise of paradise,' and hammers and hammers, 'remember me.' |
AnniversarySo the light falls, and so it fell
on branched leaved with flocking birds. Loght stole a citys weight to swell the coloured lofe of stone. Your words hung weightless in my ear: Remember me. All words except those words were drowned in the fresh babbling rush of spring. In summer's dream-filled light one sound echoed through all the whispering galleries of green: Remember me. Rods of light point home the flocking starlings to wintry trees, and turn stone into golden ochre, locking the orbit of my pain. I learn the weight of light and stone. Remember me. |
DaybreakThe snails brush silver. Critic crow
points his unpleasant beak, and lances. Resumes his treetop, darts below his acid-bright, corrosive glances. In the hushed corridors of sleep Professor Eisenbart plots treason. Caretaker mind prepares to sweep the dusty offices of reason. Eisenbart mutters, wakes in rage Because crow’s jarring c-a-a-r-k-s distress him. His mistress grins, refers to age and other matters which oppress him. He scowls purse-lipped. She yawns, and throws Her arms in scarecrow crucifixion. Clear of the hills, light’s wafer shows In world-without-end benediction. She makes him tea. He sips and calms His Royal Academic temper, While Life and Day outside shout psalms In antiphon ... Et nunc et semper. |
DichterliebeSo hungry-sensitive that he
craves day and night the pap of praise, he'll ease his gripes or fingerpaint in heartsblood on a public page. The ordinary world must be altered to circumvent his rage. He'll tell, with stylish Angst of course, the inmost secrets of our bed. Words are far worse than drugs; there is no hope of surfeit or remorse. The world lies wide, and warm. No kiss, no child, no prayer will keep him here. I'll wash the floors. He'll watch the stars. I'll salt his life with common sense. He'll suck my sap and vigour down the crude mouth of his private hell. Visions have no equivalents. He'll die of drink and candy bars. |