No more full moons
but a dimming light
of warm words,
a strident sonata
my hands ready to strike
with tingling anticipation
no street is always the same
when I happen to return,
but a foreigner
who stands pissing in the rain
on my map of the world --
thousand needles make holes
in this skull
a falcon I am, with luminous eyes,
gliding over turning forests
music of chaos in naked crowns
always the same keys get stuck
in my orderly life. I'll slay this
with chords I caress.
once// on a stormy night// on the last day of the year// no more writing of full moons// and no longer being able to see them// descrying a dulling light// in the old lane one recognizes// the endless beech lined lane// only needing themselves// tonight, a year ago, thirty two and three years ago// on each last day of a new old year// endless years// full of rustling whispers// lived there// in a lane where you meet no one no more// at the end of a chapter of long-windedness// hearing the days shrivel into mis understanding// the annals guard their silence// they sing with words longing for silence// singing in the thunderstorm coming closer// lightening// the light already an issue// all sounds of revelry muted// no old and new// no revelry// no more full moons// only an endless row of beech trees ////////////////////// and the klingclanging of rusting old bells// there somewhere among the lightning// a poet must be speechless//
dash away, blinding snow on stylish braided depressions. disappear, jolting rhythms left behind in the ruts of carts and horses with golden hoofs
verses are a dangerous pack of thieves, treacherously hard, like biting silences gone on too long
verses, bald like just a day you don't want to speak about.
a day, repetitive and persistent, a broken up road of boredom with potholes of amazement.
a poet must be...
between seconds which keep coming
and the pretty stillness of an old clock
inhumanity hides its finest tricks,
curls of past as a child's drawing
on the wall of an abandoned school
and feigns Death the owner of the brain
who's left a long time ago. a game, and yet.
I mutter my resentment at the passing of time,
like an old women her prayers. A chill
falls. I welcome it
as in a cathedral, it glides
with the caress of a silk shawl around my neck.
eternity just needs a shove
to fatally miss the curve.
that glass breaks, bridges collapse
I have to feign while I sing,
it's my job as a poet.
feigning while reason succumbs
without formulating a last wish.
singing that I need words
because of the lack of notes
singing that a handful of verses is enough.
as a poet I have to feign,
with a cast and plumb, compass
and ruler neatly within reach.
there is less to understand
than I can say in the shortest verse
a silence chases us down
overlapping with murdering whinnying
and discovering what language is for
keeping agenda's closed, without appointments
listening to life
like to a telephone which doesn't ring anymore
at incoming private numbers
giving loneliness a space,
feeling from another century, unread book
on the shelf with precious editions.
gone the outmoded flask.
letting time dissolve
as a poet I must feign, it is my job,
that time brings wisdom, and that wisdom
is a mask of Death.