The Cave Painters
The Cave Painters
Passer-by, These Are Words
Yves Bonnefoy (link)
Passer-by, these are words. But instead of reading
I want you to listen: to this frail
Voice like that of letters eaten by grass.
Lend an ear, hear first of all the happy bee
Foraging in our almost rubbed-out names.
It flits between two sprays of leaves,
Carrying the sound of branches that are real
To those that filigree the still unseen.
Then know an even fainter sound, and let it be
The endless murmuring of all our shades.
Their whisper rises from beneath the stones
To fuse into a single heat with that blind
Light you are as yet, who can still gaze.
May your listening be good! Silence
Is a threshold where a twig breaks in your hand,
Imperceptibly, as you attempt to disengage
A name upon a stone:
And so our absent names untangle your alarms.
And for you who move away, pensively,
Here becomes there without ceasing to be.
Night looks down on me (with speed)
Night looks down on me
while I write poems about the wrong balcony, try to store them in the wrong parts of my body quaking, trying to fend off the mint that you are not brewing for me inside as of course you wouldn’t or couldn’t, being inthe wrong side and all moon ignored is better than acknowledged now, mid-sentence, while I withdraw my fingers full of no point! no point! but my nails don’t hold anyone up at all and now look what I’ve written.
No wonder the night.
Visionary Eulogy (Part 5)
Rarely did I whisper my erotic poems to you . . .
A single eyelash twitch suffices
To awaken the soul from its slumber . . .
To distress a flock of sand-grouses in their nests
To open the gate of probability
Towards a mutilated poem
That might wail, but never come . . .
Or thus whoop the falling nights!
My own night was not enough
As I stared at the same glare fading slowly into
The blossoms of speech . . .
Perplexed larvae ripped up on the loom of
My own killing letters.
Marble thirst beat me
With a feeble whip.
I aimed thus the spark of nostagia at your secret water . . .
O disdainful passer-by
Let our words fall like hail
On the jujube trees of time
Let us by means of water
Pay allegiance to the metaphor therein
So that poetry exalts in us . . .
Let us see the dead sea off towards its own exile
Let us wait a little . . .
Why are poets first to die?
And What it Means
and what it means to smell of happy grass
to travel in blue irises while the ancient gods
flutter past unrippled on a smile
what it means to spell love upside down
on an awkward tablecloth
as if you have never before
written or loved
and what it means paralysed by L-
love firstly and forever to be round
with blue rain to gleam proudly in the sun
to comprehend in a brand-green beaming volapük
and to sail your golden horn till the bight of genova
and sargasso sea in the wind
with hearts agreeing like a syllogism
folded together like a swiss knife
to wake up in the armpit of venice
you know what it means for you give meaning
to grass waking up alphabet and the seven seas
untranslatable are these days
that dance on the toes of logic
after this summer there
is no excuse for autumn
The Lake Isle of Innisfree