IV
Stone, collector of silences stone, His silence in the middle of stones splits the stones. Tone atoning tones, streaming tones in streaming tongues His silence so unfamiliar grows musical.
What is song when birds of the intellect Are tossed to scrap iron-nets?
His gaze going past the hangman’s noose Colours dancing into colours into forms Into multi-coloured cruelties Congealing the air.
His gaze alone with his human face His glory alone with the disintegrating gloom His name alone reassembling rank melodies Of heavens that elude time.
V
We return with stumbling feet To the windswept leaves, Shrouds of siege govern the fragile leaves, Shivers grip the slow songs of the leaves.
Among nights of the generous disfigured sea The stream sleeps in waves Distrusting tears of the despoiled- Our disasters unsleeping, our disasters we reap each day
Darkening flames fading into rains Of acid in the wood’s homestead.
Golden twilights, naked stars, merry brutalities Tease the oranges:
What’s the fate Of you seeds of juice?
VII
In the shrinking green, reality and tragedy seed. In the belly of waters, the water’s dirge:
Earth, I’m your waterbed
I cure no cold
Since you’ve perfumed seas in toxic tons. When you swim your bald Eden, you’ll theorize:
“It’s a modern world , no Eden subsists Eden is lost polyphony, modernity is bird-less skies…”
When you sink in the Truth You’ll shake heads, mouthing rhetoric:
“Can water flowers plot so much rot? Can the flower blotted plead for us? Sublime and barren, what tree will trust us: To report its greenness gladly?”
|
SENTINEL POETRY #29, Online Magazine Monthly, April 2005, ISSN 1479-425X |