The Rest . The rest of us watch from beyond the fence as the woman moves with her jagged stride into her pain as if into a slow race. We see her body in motion but hear no sounds, or we hear sounds but no language; or we know it is not a language we know yet. We can see her clearly but for her it is running in black smoke. The cluster of cells in her swelling like porridge boiling, and bursting, like grapes, we think. Or we think of explosions in mud; but we know nothing. All around us the trees and the grasses light up with forgiveness, so green and at this time of the year healthy. We would like to call something out to her. Some form of cheering. There is pain but no arrival at anything.
‘You Are Dying Of Purity and Simplicity:’ (XI: From ‘El Rayo Que No Cesa’)
You are dying of purity and simplicity: I am guilty, love, I’m confessing that I, intrepid snatcher of kisses, I sipped at the flower of your cheek. I sipped at the flower of your cheek, and since that glory, that event, your cheek, so careful and serious, droops, despoiled and sallow.
The ghost of that delinquent kiss haunts your persecuted cheekbone, always more obvious, dark and immense. And you are sleepless, zealously watching my mouth, with such care, so nothing corrupts or outrages!
INCOMPLETE SILENCE . What an incomplete silence among so many sounds! Now, and only now, they are trying to tell us that they loved and they forgot, and always remained far from any final truth. Love is an unredeemable debt contracted in the dark and only death can free the debtors from default.
Everything will reach its end in an ocean of shadows. The dead also cease, after so many tears, and masses sung and notices in the daily newspapers. We are born to evaporate, after having been water lapping at the boatyard launching ramp. We are born to say our name to the wind.
Our bodies crawled to the entrance of the cave. But where were our souls at that moment of ecstasy and bondage? They were hidden like bats, sleeping, as placid as placentas.
How is it that, being gone, you fill my days, And all the long nights are made glad by thee? No loneliness is this, nor misery, But great content that these should be the ways Whereby the Fancy, dreaming as she strays, Makes bright and present what she would would be. And who shall say if the reality Is not with dreams so pregnant. For delays And hindrances may bar the wished-for end; A thousand misconceptions may prevent Our souls from coming near enough to blend; Let me but think we have the same intent, That each one needs to call the other, "friend!" It may be vain illusion. I'm content.
Kyrie Tomas Tranströmer . At times my life suddenly opens its eyes in the dark. A feeling of masses of people pushing blindly through the streets, excitedly, toward some miracle, while I remain here and no one sees me.
It is like the child who falls asleep in terror listening to the heavy thumps of his heart. For a long, long time till morning puts his light in the locks and the doors of darkness open.
Reader! of books! of heaven, . And of that God from whom Who in mysterious Sinais awful cave, To Man the Wond'rous art of writing gave, Again he speaks in thunder and in fire! Thunder of Thought, & flames of fierce desire: Even from the depths of Hell his voice I hear, Within the unfathomd caverns of my Ear. Therefore I print; nor vain my types shall be: Heaven, Earth & Hell, henceforth shall live in harmony
Like a spider they await For the trusting and unsuspecting prey. To light upon their web To twist and deceive you Until you believe what has been said To be truth, love and kindness.
Words of evil and trustless faith Has warped this world of it's gentleness And stripped the life from it. The very being of it's soul Has been buried beneath The cries of pain of centuries old
For they all watch and sit and wait To see how much further we shall go How much more destruction is left. Sadly, we are being waited on by eyes much wiser and knowing Than yours or mine Just to see what we will do In our Circle of Time. LneStarLdy
2 a.m. . Under the covers, the winds of sleep rock the poppies of your breasts We close our eyes to this life and open them to the other Next to the eager ness of the fly, the wrath of a flock of sparrows and the saintliness of the horse you fall off the precipice of the day's bridge The teeth of winter also sleep for a while Under the bed, my shoes too rest their burning eyes At 2 A. M. God comes out to stretch his legs and lights the cigarette of a whore that struts in front of the drugstore The plank of solitude that spawns fraternities —snake and hare, owl and mouse— is dispelled when I exist in your dream alongside with whom I was and will be The night is a knife of diving dust You arch a shoulder and office buildings collapse when your knees point skyward there's thunder in a desert If you were to open your eyes now you could mangle a continent
The blood that courses through my veins Runs true to the Cherokee. I am the blood of my people. I am Cherokee.
The trail that my forefathers walked, Saturated in their tears, The trail has become my trial I listen with their ears.
I heard the wailing of the Cherokee Proud of the salty tears, I cry the tears of the Cherokee Even after all these years.
I walk the trail that they cried, I hear their voices frail, I bear the blood of the Cherokee. Damn this worthless trail.
'Trail Of Tears' of the Cherokee, Long remembered in shame. I cry out for the Cherokee. I wear the Cherokee name.
Hear me loud and hear me clear, No head hung in sorrow... For I am the proud Cherokee Waiting for tomorrow.
I will regain what my forefathers lost. I will stand and show my pride. And all the spirits of the lost Cherokee Will be standing at my side.
I am the proud Cherokee. You'd do well to remember my name. In the name of all Cherokee My rights I do reclaim. <~~~~~~~~> I am Cherokee <~~~~~~~~~~~~~~> I am Cherokee <~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~> I amCherokee
I never thought that God had any form. Absoute the life; and absolute the norm. Never eyes: God sees with the stars. Never hands: God touches with the seas. Never tongue: God speaks with sparkles. I will tell you, don't be startled; I know that God has parasites: things and men.
CIRCULAR SYSTEMS . It’s the jerky wheeze from the one who pants makes him/her pant like that. The lower lip curls to what a cerebral lobe full of echoes in captivity dictates. One pants, pauses and pants in a causal connection. Nobody at all is bothered by it while the panting lasts. Later animals appear: the scaredy-cat in the big wheel, the fairground pony that relives everything at night.
Songs » N New Speedway Boogie Lyrics By: Robert Hunter Music By: Jerry Garcia Please don't dominate the rap, Jack If you got nothing new to say If you please, don't back up the track This train's got to run today
I spent a little time in the mountain Spent a little time on the hill I heard some say "better run away" Others say "better stand still"
Now I don't know but I've been told It's hard to run with the weight of gold Other hand I heard it said It's just as hard with the weight of lead
Who can deny? Who can deny? It's not just a change in style One step done and another begun In I wonder how many miles?
I spent a little time on the mountain Spent a little time on the hill Things went down we don't understand But I think in time we will
Now I don't know but I was told In the heat of the sun a man died of cold Do we keep on coming or stand and wait With the sun so dark and the hour so late?
You can't overlook the lack Jack Of any other highway to ride It's got no signs or dividing lines And very few rules to guide
I spent a little time on the mountain Spent a little time on the hill I saw things getting out of hand I guess they always will
Now, I don't know but I've been told If the horse don't pull, you got to carry the load I don't know whose back's that strong Maybe find out before too long
One way or another One way or another One way or another This darkness got to give [etc]
In the Puszcza Laura Lush From: Hometown. Vehicule Press (Signal Editions), 1991.
In the secret forest mushrooms glow in velvet stupors. Under moss, skulls whiten like well-kept streetlamps, empty conchs were you to hold them to your ears. Yet the deer, the lynx, and boar live on freely, nudging at still-uncovered helmets. The night's shiny as a cut. And sometimes they find them, face down— skeletons with the dainty bracelets of barbed wire round their angel-thin bones.
This ancient domestic ritual of covering the bread well, of seeing there is a tablecloth for the table and that it doesn't lack salt, my hands in such assiduous escape without wanting nor thinking it's already almost an irremediable defect that I can't succeed in curing. In the same way, I carry in my syllables that someone sometime will write, here, in my lukewarm fingertips quick to caress or to extend in a resounding slap in the face that I can't manage to restrain.
In whatever manner, one lives jailed who doesn't wish to escape.
The Snowfall Is So Silent by Miguel de Unamuno translated by Robert Bly
The snowfall is so silent, so slow, bit by bit, with delicacy it settles down on the earth and covers over the fields. The silent snow comes down white and weightless; snowfall makes no noise, falls as forgetting falls, flake after flake. It covers the fields gently while frost attacks them with its sudden flashes of white; covers everything with its pure and silent covering; not one thing on the ground anywhere escapes it. And wherever it falls it stays, content and gay, for snow does not slip off as rain does, but it stays and sinks in. The flakes are skyflowers, pale lilies from the clouds, that wither on earth. They come down blossoming but then so quickly they are gone; they bloom only on the peak, above the mountains, and make the earth feel heavier when they die inside. Snow, delicate snow, that falls with such lightness on the head, on the feelings, come and cover over the sadness that lies always in my reason.