Saturday, May 27, 2017

a small lantern burning / for the song

because the night boxes with the day
the dawn is bloodied and one refrains from looking upon that countenance

because the dawn comes on hooves to rush through the moment
one lies in bed with the simmering hours beginning to boil in the pot of the mind

last night the silver coins of the frogs were passed between them in loud haggling
the currency of their sounds made the poem shiver as if passing through a cobweb

and so the poem lay down in the gap between night and morning
waiting for dawn to go     where dawn goes is not certain

sometimes I have seen her carrying her limbs of dark clouds to the end of the road
and then faltering    she has laid the burden down

now it is evening    and there is no hesitation about being up and witnessing
the mating calls of frogs who don't know what the point of life is anyway other than

this strong insistent need to call out to the other
which is all poets do for similar reasons

we are impelled to make mating cries in poems
for the beloved who lurks in dark corners and who we recognise

just today I drifted from one phase into another
the inactive portion of life was forgotten

as I trudged like a mule carrying my soul like a ship does
a limpet      to the outer regions of a mountain where     dizzy I stood

a small lantern burning
for the song

in between day and night the boxing gloves are put away
and the coffin of night is left open to release the prisoners

who are wont to drift about   these small ghosts 
that I capture and put into these poems

what do they want to say?
I look at their faces and I decide for them

they want to say that they once wasted time
and now they are put away like socks balled up in space

nothing lingers like the toes of houses in the fir trees
that seem to have lost their feet and their legs

immensity of rock face behind them
and the touching vulnerability of thousands of dandelions

glowing in the wet mud
as if they were stars in the firmament

between the horse's arse of life's requirements
are the fool's glittering juggling balls

      the sun mutters behind her bloodied handkerchief
night presses the pillow of the moon down and falls asleep


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