:: :: :: :: terrible dragon: slaying the world one poem at a time :: :: :: ::
Thursday, November 29, 2007
An old tale of light
You looked inside me. ~Griet from Girl With A Pearl Earring
Catch me then looking at the light in solemn acts of perception, the supple cherish of how the moment slips and slips away into longing, into the sacred ache of misembracing what eludes an eye to settle as a ghost upon a heart, vanishing it little by little until absence overwhelms.
I cannot stop this looking as I cannot cease this longing. It is an old tale of light, this, how objects find their pure caress before the presence of what endures in time yet ungiven to itself. I would hold you thus, immeasureless and expansive as whatever ages to come might confer in failed attempts to diminish or subsume by a weather of brush.
Seized in the thrum of time, time uncrippled by our sense of it, time thrown from the washbucket of a maid across the night sky, a swath of soft pearls spilled in hard gas, you will endure until enduring no longer matters to itself.
Catch me looking at the light then, until the looking receases me from this endless doing so. Catch me looking then until the last of the light looks back.
Thus, horse helps hawk to fly, twitter take wind, the wren her place in the sky.~Aucassin Verdé
Not the white spread of plangent adoration unfurled from withers of brushed pearl, not the miraculous whip of godmane tearing devils from the very heavens, not dawncaper and flankstorm, but the smallest threads of tailtress laced through the warbler’s bed, crownthorn cushed from the inside with the neighing of clopdown and larkspur, the sown dressage of spring hay halted by a hoof in a tree, the stable that keeps the sky for the running beneath when to take wing means to do just that, to claim quill and meadowsong as one’s own, to canter along bridled arcways that pass through fallen cloudbolt, the distant vespers of svaha, the rootless pooling of the heavy thundered sun.
It arrives at three am with its bags unpacked, doesn’t bother knocking, and asks for money. It is a stranger whose first name is known to you, but one you’d rather forget. It pushes past you and dumps out all the drawers, rifles through cabinets you were sure were locked. On the floor, all the intentions you’ve had since last spring lie strewn in neglect, their abandoned excuses buried beneath.
As you watch it move from room to room, you realize there isn’t enough food in the house. Such naked hunger is almost beautiful to observe, so you do. And in doing so, you watch yourself watching as if from above, as if some clever cinematographer placed a camera to catch every perfectly framed nuance.
Someone has quit, or died, or run away with your gardener who promised he’d trim that front hedge by Thursday. Someone doesn’t love you anymore, or does still, in spite of what you truly are. Someone has fallen out of a window that leads to the same question of what were they doing there.
There is not enough coffee in the world to keep the cup full during this interminable time. It will root in your attic and drag everything up there down to the cellar and everything in the cellar up to the attic. China returns to being a far and distant landmass on a map that’s just been torn from the wall.
Phones you didn’t know you have begin ringing and telegrams appear at the open door. Messages are being wired through your central nervous system and every one demands a signature. When it leaves, there isn’t a single fingerprint in the house.
You try to describe the intruder but cannot keep the sketch artist’s interest. You want to be a victim, but realize that would mean everybody. So you slowly begin packing away what it left, trundling it back up and down, rearranging the semblance of routine and intention until you can live in your new digs again.
Somewhere in the world we share opposite ends of the sky. There was the leaving you and before that, the finding. How these things come about, I cannot say.
How many the times you thought of me, or I of you, and neither ever knew it. There is a singular tragedy in this, holding and losing a beauty that can neither be held nor lost.
So I take water, sip the common things that make us alike as if hovering before the swollen pistil of a flower: snow, pollen, dust, the grieving stars.
Somewhere in the world you are looking out a window. If it is night, you are staring back at yourself. If morning, the rising blinds you enough to cause you to believe you might have seen something that reminds you of me.
It may be the missing part in a fence line, or the withered tree among a colted stand of saplings driving the sun deeper into their willing roots. Whatever is or isn’t, we share opposite ends of a same sky.
First build a wall that runs along the root of a lone tree, stone on stone, preferably, cracked with mossy patina and the erosion that being alone provides.
Next, set random rocks and weeds along a barely noticeable path that vanishes in the distance far too early. Wash the scene with textures of light sifted from overclouded skies. Here sit and make silence your temple.
After the voices fade and the murmurs of the night commence, stand and move towards the star that leads home. Some part of you will follow, some part of you will remain. What stays with you is what is left of that which is no longer part of you. Be with it as you heat water, cut bread, make the mutable signs that mark your tenuous presence in two worlds.
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.