|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Waiting here in black, well worn— their last, most comfortable shape — curves of her second skin, as familiar with the genius of the place as the genius herself, every corner of Munstead Wood trodden, planted, prodded into life.
Out in the cold, until the last light and frosty air settled on her garden, rooks long since gathering; reluctantly, she would turn, return to the warmth of home, boots left outside soil-encrusted, laces askew,
tongues drooping into the void
waiting to be filled.
In Athens, painted amphorae for the best wine sing my popularity— show me playing the lyre; on murals I am the poet with stylus and book looking away, my short stature cloaked, plain face made pretty, black hair curled: righting nature’s wrong, from this dissonant chord painters made a song.
Coins carrying my head pass from hand to hand in Lesbos; my statue in Syracuse will be blood hot in the sun when this body is dust. My scrolls of songs— how will they bear the heat of the sun, how will they fare in the hands of those to come,
when monuments are disturbed and I am unwound from the dead, long since part of another world? Strips of papyrus will crumble at a touch: fragments they’ll try to fix, to unravel the words I wove, disembowelling sacred animals stuffed with our love.
I think someone will remember us in another time but now, let’s sing our desires my fair-haired followers, leave the valley through the myth of the cave, find Dionysus among the ashes. With your dark haired muse come scaled the mountain— the meeting place of heaven and earth— the rainbow body ours, earthly life truly insubstantial.
18 degrees—is it really December? No Christmas songs on the radio, not a jarring jingle in the shops, not a decoration to be seen, and only 24 days to go. Behind the high Corbières, clear winter air lifts the curtain on a new horizon: the snow-capped Pyrenees— your first Christmas card. So yes, the stage is set, December is here.
Fourteen days on, try supermarkets, this is where tinsel and gloss is stored: serving plates in gold and silver; lights, red candles, fancy linen, and more; oysters from all parts, mounds of fresh foie- gras; turkey, truffles, traditional wild boar; crystallised fruit in rainbow rows, gateaux to die for, chestnuts, hors d'œuvres, and all to be bought by the 23rd, with bubbly Blanquette de Limoux.
Music in the squares: Christmas markets, towns vying for the brightest event. Holly decked stalls with oil lamps swinging, tempt you to sweetmeats, toys and mulled wine. Doorways are dressed with spice-scented fir trees—no glitter, baubles, tinsel, chains. The smallest village wishes you PEACE in strings of lights, white shooting stars guiding you through. The icing on the cake— the mighty Pyrenees watching over you.
Walk into this other world feel a thick warmth envelop you files of folded sheets surround you experiences washed out but not away.
Close the door on the outside world you are free to roam at will to bathe in waters of past or present piles of towels here to dry your eyes if you want it that way.
Hear the silence of enclosed space punctured only by the gurgling cistern you can dare all those wild things warm and weft your only witnesses in this airy cocoon.
|
|
©
of
all poems featured on this site remains with the
poet |
