Between us three there is this he, a flat piece of jelly that defeats us daily by the night, occupying our body, as fears spread in the belly like a jelly, these silly fears.
He that wore a body till recently is now an idea mainly that spread from our sleeping body, between our sheets, in dreams, mainly, to a sky that arched over our body. Our light shadows coalesce with his absence of body entering our common dreams in our separate sleeps.
( Three women are mother, wife and daughter of a dead man)
The carpenter wants keenly to realize beauty ,from his bearded face wearing drops of liquor on the twisted corners of lips, with a buddy on bench, Sunday not surely being a holiday from beauty.
Wood is butter, to the knife and the hacksaw. But liquor is quicker, on the body, behold and lo.
Beauty is not always dead wood imitating life. Beauty lies in a shack, a thatch and on a bench frothing in brown at the top, to flies buzzing around eyes , the world having lost its outline. The earth and the sky become a single mass.
Looking for symbols ,largely,in iterations of night we came upon light that struck in our small face blinding child’s understanding, where everything was predicative but unfailingly stood for a real thing.
We now stand in rain with song on lips,in eyes of love. We stretch our palms to collect our raindrops of love. We look for life-size images, life’s burning ugliness ,several times glossed over,in mortal fear of symbols fading away to nothing, a grey sky stopping to rain.
Our symbols are largely flesh, without it and outside it. Our mornings do not stand for anything in the window. We have thrown a few rice-flakes around from white vans in deathly silence, where even a flower drops in sound.
We do not open our lips nor watch other lips move or see other eyes.We close eyes on sound, on sight. Our feet are,ghost-like, on each other, so that the ants in them crawl against all motion.
Lips shall make a circular sound on the flat earth of ears. The ants are busy in feet finding their destination which is just the circle of sound.
Lips will form ellipsis to let pass sound like wind under the door.We now hear the ants crawling,the silence of their sounds in us.
On our way towards darkness we look and see and poetize and move forward. From every corner come rich offerings. Corners are darkness hiding cricket and mountains softly sitting on horizon while sky clouds drift across mountain.
Corners are chair legs sitting by old men who are corners sitting over old chairs. The legs are old corners of mind spaces.
A poet’s corner comes back to darkness ,a howl from old corner ,a chair with legs,a leg hanging in the howl’s dark corner.
From every corner come rich offerings ,a mute chair leg hanging by an old light, a balcony corner for wet clothes to dry.
(remembering John Ashberry poem “Two scenes” -“We see us as we truly behave/From every corner comes a distinctive offering“)
Everyone was down and under, not their fault the waters went.The sun would come too close to the bodies , in pure dry love .He sucked bogs high and dry.
Those who did not hide in holes tasted his love burning and pure.Their water went like in old bog. Some just croaked like old frogs.The tiny ones felt low and dry.
His burning love came in waves as though it was his sea of love.Death would come in waves too.Words went dry on poet throats.
Please mind your gaps, says the poet-gardener of gaps. Poems are gaps between words, their long stretching spaces adding further gaps. The gaps are my emptiness between words like the milk between the stars on a dark night.
O chestnut tree, are you the leaf, blossom or the bole? Asks poet of a chestnut in a jam jar, planted on the very day of his birth. The chestnut dances in the wind and the poet does not know dance from the dancer.(Yeats)
The Mayor cannot transform his bad wheat. A bad wheat makes a bad bread .
The Mayor of Casterbridge (Thomas Hardy) is my re-read. I am trying to mind the gaps.