:: :: :: :: terrible dragon: slaying the world one poem at a time :: :: :: ::
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Where history makes your pillow
is pretty much indistinguishable from another. You might arrive home from a long day in the sky to see the sun slip through a slot that anchors off the western end of a landmass you know too little about. You might be traveling to Nürnberg eight years ago, write a poem that never sees the daylight, something weepheavy and rainbooted about sleeping where history makes your pillow.
This one splits a dawn pepper tree at the junction between beauty and a perfect fluke of precision. A shallow blade of solaxial realignment instills. Shadows lengthen and you’re sixty-feet tall at the start of this season, well on your way toward Sphinxworn riddles you will leave unanswered. On the ground, a mourning dove haunches sejant, stoic and still as six-thousand year old limestone.
Something in you deifies her and you think perhaps you will bring her oxen and washed vegetables, set before her all the promises of this and the next world. But the sky reclaims her and she is flown with your untendered offering as two oaks exhale imperceptibly. In the distance, an ocean drowns a thousand Mojaves. A thousand more Saharas lie beneath those. As in love, there is yet time for completion and commencement.
So we go along for some years and a few more after that and sometimes the shade begins to drop down and the light in the room dims and dims some more as shapes take on others while others lose cohesion to recombine with a pooling darkness, and a small pebble forms in the shoe of your soul and grides and rubs raw until it pokes through to tear leather built up over years of careful cobbling, some tender, some knurled in anger, and the dimming, the dimming continues as your feet hurt and the room goes dark and no one can see in and you can’t see out because the shade has welded shut and the cord has slipped the ring and nothing will raise it again, not Jesus, not Dos Equis, not Slap Chop, so you sit with it until you can’t sit with it any longer and no one cares that can change it because there’s a certain comfort seasoned in all of this, the cussing, the short patience, the contempt for how things ever got to this state of brokenness, and life keeps pressing the buzzer and kicking at the door and you’d give it all if it would just go away and suddenly the shade coils up, snaps open, and the whole thing starts all over again.
You may sit smiling wanly at the edge of a bed among grey-white cloudskins that gather there, the walls nearly as barren of artifice as the motives of a mirror, and as you sit you may know that no one may ever see you in this moment until they might happen to come across evidence of it, some lines on paper, the butt of a cigarette left for a maid that will never come to part half-opened curtains that let in the light but not all of it, just enough to preserve what shadows you have befriended, better company kept against all who might have blamed you dry of this precious contrast for only time is allowed to move unparsed here, to riffle through drawers, read over your shoulder, soften the click- clack of a black typewriter, making sure the bolt is turned and some veneer of mattering maintained.
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.