could you tell which rain it was that gave you words: was it the one which knew the ground was as certain as the gash of sky from which it fell, or the one tied to the shadow of an older rain, or the ground itself turned sorrow turned rain?
and if the bird knew how to solve differential equations would she hurry up & build funeraries, motelsarais, warehousings, or would she find ways to link flower with stone, leafred with riverbed & heartsink with lamentories, joylings, trepids?
I as earth singular as plural river indigenous
there is a semblance of a poem at the heart of where it calls out to new voices some of which are known to poems of old the semblance too is known but hides in fear of knowing too much
white as the perspired block, black as tame spiders, red as the withered leaf on mooncall, brown as daybreak tending rivers -
to think the night kind is to believe in song say it is kind, but not so loud in an other song, you can hear it think but not as loud it is kind, this night with lost dream and lost language bereft song, lost to kindness and dream -
night with its many deaths is a song read with the eye of a pen dipped in unfettered ink with a hunger leavened and fit to taste - remnants of what I knew but longed to dislodge from arid haunts & inarticulate wounds -
if the tethering of night to stillness were a given, I could believe in riversand enough to conjure up the absence of sky - if imaginings of the tether were to roam skysand I could believe again in riversong -
the castle, most watered down, shrieks - its bottom spared the moth of beginnings, it hums an ancient bawl the river, riven in its gutted wear, bends - its weave turned in to speak of beginnings, it gnaws an ancient crawl
see me through doors that are voices carrying asphalt when it should be loam - dream me through doors that are voices, silting hue - when will the sun sit with me, remember sunken sky & play with half-lives? see me through lives that are doors that are voices carrying the silt of days, banks that are salt & hue -
how much burden do the ghosts of everyday scars carry? the faint smell of their nonpresence is all it takes to weigh down their mourn theirs is the past and the circle theirs is the next day and the next rounding off the circle the scars of nonbeing go about their childlike ways tracking noons fearing the thought of the coming dark and the next & the weight of it all -
In gorges, dragons voice age-old explanations. In pools ten hundred feet deep, you hear them. Cruel waves keep strict accounts, drinking blood to nurture children and grandchildren, but without ancient Kao Yao’s gentle justice, feasting on prison-drowned spirits is empty. Something there, mystery haunting darkness, the futile talk of ghosts goes on and ever on, gorges hearing cascades cry lament, gorges mourning widowed gibbons. There’s nothing human in the sound of gorges, gorges where blades of churning water slice at themselves, and now, sage hearts all hidden away here, who marshals these bitter and drowned pleas? - Meng Chiao, from Laments of the Gorges
The tidyness of verse: grain that is smaller than earth's witnessing girth home that is Larger than the pronouns of wasted wish sound that is vice, skin and rupture this is The tidyness of verse sharp as the smell of knowing the birth of grain, home & sound -