Monday, 28 September 2015

the sun arcs into evening and the moon grows fatter

the sun arcs into evening and the moon grows fatter
by each lengthening night
in accordance with the shape our shadow casts
in measurements of time we gave a name.

celebrating the cyclical journey in our own ways.

extract the marrow.

say thank you.

wrapped in faded remnants of summer sun
the tree beside the church begins to blush
as the slender bodies of birch shed their tiny golden leaves.

fingerprint patterns decorate the pool of water
that reflects the world upside down and back at itself.

the earth and air cool, share and seduce with their september scents
as the light spreads bright and thin across the wall
and we speak with gods and remain humble.

without fail the sun in liquid light kisses the horizon
at the end of each day and we hold out our tongues
to lick the fresh wounds from the bruised knees of the night
as we pass through our own flames to the root of the soul
and come face to face with our point of origin
if only we read the map right.....

1 comment:

timo said...

a rain of leaves to you from Dublin, I'm strolling familiar-unfamiliar streets like one walking around inside himself like one walking inside a partially familiar old house like one walking around a Dublin on a first visit

“the poem though well able to duplicate the creation in words was never able to fuse the duplication into a unity, unable to do so because the seeming-reversion, the divination, the beauty, because all these things which determined, which became poetry, took place solely in the duplicated world; the world of speech and the world of matter remained apart, twofold the home of the word, twofold the home of the human being, twofold the abyss of the creaturely, but twofold also the purity of being, thus duplicated to unchastity which, like a resurrection without birth, penetrated all divination as well as all beauty, and carried the seed of world-destruction in itself, the basic unchastity of existence which came to be feared by the mother; unchaste the mantle of poetry, and nevermore would poetry come to be fundamental…” -- H. Broch, The Death of Virgil

and things like that while I listen to the memories of faces on the streets, fingers touching grooves in stone constructions older than the distant pyramids