Clarity,
Office 17622,
PO Box 6945,
London.
W1A 6US
United Kingdom
Phone/ Voicemail:
+44 (0)20 3287 3053 (UK)
+1 (561) 459-4758 (US).
Below the sand an animal has tunnelled toward an exit
now awash with flood from the mountains, in the recesses
an escapee cringes before the palace guard locates him
and returns him to the dungeon, in the imprint of a hoof
an insect flutters in the shade of another coming down
and I, prone to distress on the hillside far from my aching forehead
and the drop in temperature
as the north wind follows the same pattern it has for millennia,
forgo the immediate impressions of light on a rock,
a spider hanging on a web,
smeared fingerprints and the scrape of a leaf across a window
uncomplicated details swallowed
by moods stuck to my bones,
simple vision washed by goddess’s tears
through a channel that can handle one or two moans
and not longing to turn human suffering
into a way to forget her own,
sympathy made to appear like stone weights
in the avalanche of meaning below the spume
that keeps on falling where doves can't rise
and arrows refuse to penetrate,
the distant caress
of rain upon the ocean captured in a shell
passed over for the demand
to express all possible nuances
of a wayward shaft, reveal the undertones
of an aching heart transmuting the present
into a surfeit of knowledge
it knows why the odour followed it
from the morgue
when only the slightest breeze accompanied the walk,
encapsulate everything transcendent about a small boy
whose inkling to deny poverty for a life
in the priesthood took one’s breath away
allocate a moment to compress all possibility
strung out through the day
into a vision which could be experienced
in an instant:
a second to bury your smile
in tomes with no ending,
one minute to recount the pulse before it subsided,
one hour to accompany a grieving parent
on the way to a funeral, one morn
to focus on all the ancient sayings
you could recite
one lonely afternoon
to contemplate as much as I can say
stretched from emptiness to the substitution
of words for things
and events that never occurred.
now awash with flood from the mountains, in the recesses
an escapee cringes before the palace guard locates him
and returns him to the dungeon, in the imprint of a hoof
an insect flutters in the shade of another coming down
and I, prone to distress on the hillside far from my aching forehead
and the drop in temperature
as the north wind follows the same pattern it has for millennia,
forgo the immediate impressions of light on a rock,
a spider hanging on a web,
smeared fingerprints and the scrape of a leaf across a window
uncomplicated details swallowed
by moods stuck to my bones,
simple vision washed by goddess’s tears
through a channel that can handle one or two moans
and not longing to turn human suffering
into a way to forget her own,
sympathy made to appear like stone weights
in the avalanche of meaning below the spume
that keeps on falling where doves can't rise
and arrows refuse to penetrate,
the distant caress
of rain upon the ocean captured in a shell
passed over for the demand
to express all possible nuances
of a wayward shaft, reveal the undertones
of an aching heart transmuting the present
into a surfeit of knowledge
it knows why the odour followed it
from the morgue
when only the slightest breeze accompanied the walk,
encapsulate everything transcendent about a small boy
whose inkling to deny poverty for a life
in the priesthood took one’s breath away
allocate a moment to compress all possibility
strung out through the day
into a vision which could be experienced
in an instant:
a second to bury your smile
in tomes with no ending,
one minute to recount the pulse before it subsided,
one hour to accompany a grieving parent
on the way to a funeral, one morn
to focus on all the ancient sayings
you could recite
one lonely afternoon
to contemplate as much as I can say
stretched from emptiness to the substitution
of words for things
and events that never occurred.
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