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 | Halcyon |
| â Pastoral: Part I. an hour left to myself - other things I should do: feed the long fingered garden that sends spiders out in ego imperatives and tapped out telegraphic birds â that squeak flittingly â of songs of other cities that survived over them. my hour passes, and I shave, a lathering with the noise of all thatâs important, that froths from café doors, restaurants, theatres, the chatter of plates being cleared, stacked, glasses being polished â people paying, living â leaving â congregates around the lighthouse. after remembering where I put my car, inhaling deeply, I notices that the street has that porous smell of damp concretes, although it hasnât rained. redeeming another hour the sky is dagger lit, flashâd mint leaf sharp â aimed from behind horizon where the sun, offended, dries. I, personified, begin a painting a familiar fugue, figure - a rock, animated sinew string, Iâll never know whats is. I feel exhilarated, as lifted, by the glass buildings, reflecting each other, skyscrapers, I imagined reaching equally deep into the earth. the churches that pass advertise membership and with pens I subtract from every verse â suffering every plague. the do not cross sign halt its movement for a moment, conducting, symphonising its signals, da dum, da dum, do not, not safe, then trills, yells â itâs the time to cross. placing myself within this image â I decide to turn â there are other streets to cross. Pastoral: Part II I AM, above and beyond myself, my thoughts, that inhabit ironically grandiose buildings, composing both menial and sublime. It is important to think you are the only important living poet left and be profoundly wrong. you laugh at my loneliness, it grimaces at me, like a disfigured toy. I laughs with you, and drag it on a string. the New Landscape is the City â I pull it through â so⦠there are other things to write about â apart from birds and trees â who never wrote about you â its birds and sirens leer at human grief. |
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