:: :: :: :: terrible dragon: slaying the world one poem at a time :: :: :: ::
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Some late time
The Empty Bed
There’s the immediate moment after the line between light and shadow has been exhaled and the thousand brilliant things you might have spoken or thought have already been said by those with more eloquence and measure.
The empty bed holds the late sun and the trees sing you outside to pass beneath the dappling to breathe a twilight that will live but once in your sighs. She was like this. And it will be she who will know your last leaving.
In the silence that follows, only the dry leaf of life forgetting to stop for any longer than it needs to give reason to the wind, response to that which must always remain invisible and unutterable.
Some late time, I will give over my eyes to the gazing of it, look beyond the empty walls into the center of what was a star to find you there, worlds away with another who can company that world for you and I will be thrown back into the void from whence we came just to lose one another all over again.
There was the realm of your shoulders, the pale avenues that broadened across the bones that held for me so much, so much. The empire of your throat, pulsing with barrows of sun and blood the songs that rested there each time you thought of me merely. The bastions of your breasts, bound beneath the believing and the lie that lies at its very heart. Am I to split the atoms of my lips again for this, tear asunder all I have already despaired in the destruction of paper gods whose names were lost in the fire that bred them, the tongues that found praise in their flammable blasphemes? I cannot surrender to your country, the borders will not have me, hence I am expatriate and cross them thus with a word and a wing and a wound, a deep unscabbable worldly wound.
A certain menace in the eyes, the fork of no concern belies wherein a worm or hook might tack or take its turn, No gold laced hay or sainted straw scattered in the bed Day breaks beyond the frame where shadows home the stead. Her head poised in mild regard to what the right hand knows: Hard as gothic glass is how American winds pitch blows. No cotton more severe than that so collared in the light, Fear the faintest color overlaid in starchest white.
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.