*A poetic vision for when you wake, made of all of human history Filled with music and recklessness and things built in foreign lands A massive tapestry fit for a queen which tells you true, which tells you why Among many other things…* ` Oh sternly do men make the most of human breath In vision against a cold sky, they float their ice and bodies Against a backdrop of lava and mountain Against green and verdure and the ocean’s mist By which the bird song carried out towards the ships And where many slaves were once enlisted to carry ground glass Across the worldscape forthwith to place for a viewing Now - willingly and joyfully they come - not led, at all, Not even invited, faces with no expression, not mourning Not in joy, just simple and factual efficiency for a supreme purpose Their lives spent in imagining the one vision of freedom purposed Saved from mountain and lava, saved from the cruel masters of ships And so not even slaves, yet there is no other word for it A kind of love which once inspired knows no regression And so many! They dot the landscape like pores upon a stone, How amazing and special to think no one’s left alone, Here in the mildewed halls of perfection, where very few now wander, Thinking all things lost, and having no recourse but to cynicism and irony. Oh, my dearest one, may you never become ironic! May you stay As beautiful as you are, and always were! There are far too many Lost souls to lose another. And you had always been my favorite. May it remain so! May it remain so! ` So now the grand and crashing symbols for life: the rising, yellow sun The oblong and crystallized mist of morning, the cool hand to first Touch yours and electrify the day. How I especially envy the crashing foam Of the sea, and the limpid water beneath, and the sea creatures who Await your visit, with the eager joy of the underground creatures Given reprieve from the glass-like roof of the ocean. Who know enough not to be too careful and breach The water to let you know they have sensed your arrival, And who care nothing of slaves, and who care nothing Of ground glass and prisms and colors and swirling vapors. Whose conical caps, given by nature, bear no resemblance To human forgeries, and yet these human forgeries exist, And are no longer forgeries, for everything progresses And everything shines. Oh, I remember the scent I wore for your first arrival in the houses of sky, And their hanging vines, and the beauty of your rounded hips When my faithful hand forgot itself and absent-mindedly touched them. And although I can feel the pressure I remember nothing else, Not time nor place nor music. And although I know it truthfully to be so, Like many of us I have doubted. So as the special design for bird-cry Re-installs itself as eagle and as wind, And while several births occur simultaneously Upon the great crusts of Earth, The morning greets you as its star dims And takes its hidden place behind the sun, Forges into the silent divide behind man’s sight, Takes the shape of womanly grace to divine and foreshadow, Intuitively fertile in thought, as the least blade of grass, Or humble strawberry patch could also foresee, Beautiful things in our company. Oh dear love, do not mind my fickle Sense of fortune, to have been born So far and distant from you, filled With sitar and cuatro, filled with yucca and guava And mauve, for when my ancestors were playfully Rejoicing or visiting their gods, in innocence… They were also, always, already being watched… And so it is I have learned to do things three times: Once for fake, once for real, and another for fake, again; just to keep it real- as you once said… ` Now low moans whisper the day. Rhythms find us and tear us apart. Things to think about, the ever-present. And undecidable & beautiful, I say your name. ` Let the low drone of impossible width of pitch Resound with primal drum and heartbeat. Whispered, little by little, the day pushes up Its prominent mountain, gaining upon the invisble One at the heart of the universe, atop which I gallantly rest, and touch your hand. ` Watching the watchers, waking the darkness Against the day, the vine of the grape hidden In cellar and chateau, the floral bouquets of Herbs mixed into the spirits. ` The heart of the sun. _____ Stanley Gemmell Morning Pastoral [Fragment] 9/18/2013
Posted on: Wed, 18 Sep 2013 10:54:27 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015