Wednesday, May 24, 2017

and the river by the forest murmured your name

and the fir trees trembled
as the wind combed through their tresses that were long  

and the fronds of the ferns whisked
the curdle of the rain to a froth    as it fell into the bowl of dirt

that shattered    into fragments of water
that were gathered in the marsh       that peeled off her face of dust

and the liver of the day is cut up with these knives
that I use to declare this moment is mine

               I could have been splendidly busy    but instead I did nothing 
I could have shaped reality at least        with a song or two today

but instead of working      or making a list of tasks
to go through    I stayed still and watched the storm burn through the hours 

nothing done is an art form of mine
and I wished for a landscape that I created here in this poem 

I washed the dark from the clouds and limped through the storm
to arrive in this landscape that I realize

and the grasses were cut down to their lowest level
I pearled their threads with the rain       these wet beads

made an abacus of the lawn instrument 
then the rain trampled with wet feet the iris

and the iris made a purple statement in the front beds
where the Solomons seals vented their prayers

and somewhere in the distance
the world made a few more assets to add to what is present of nothingness

and the river by the forest murmured your name
so as to be accompanied by a shadow

and the disc of the moon    was hit by the hammer of the sun
that obliterated it    into storm clouds that raggedly travelled

I wish I could make a path that I could see clearly
but the route is mysterious  

I simply hear the singing inside me
and then the words fly out of my mouth     these black crows

that thud down on the wet field of the grasses
that sing poetry       and what of the future?

I can't say what will happen in the next landscape
these are future visions

only the blue messages of the lilac are real 
and the purple highlighting of the iris is being done now 

tell me the time of the storm in this poem
only the brittle seeds of the poppies

as they shatter their shells in the rain 
understand the matter of risk and venture capitalism 

I wish to make a future out of these visions
and then learn what was the route that was traversed to arrive here

I wish to dance in the cold present
of the rain storm which builds a city

out of dust   and the rooted grasses
that again arise from these visions


Armen Gasparyan:

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