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Suddenly becoming talkative
like weaverbird
Summoned at offside of
dream remembered
Between sleep and waking,
I hang up my egg-shells
To you of palm grove,
Upon whose bamboo towers
Hang, dripping with yesterupwine
A tiger mask and nude spear…
Queen of the damp half-light,
I have had my cleansing,
Emigrant with airborne nose,
The he-goat-on-heat
For he was a shrub among the poplars,
Needing more roots
More sap to grow to sunlight,
Thirsting for sunlight
A low growth among the forest.
Into the soul
The selves extended their branches
Into the moments of each living hour
Feeling for audience
Straining thin among the echoes;
And out of the solitude
Voice and soul with selves unite,
Riding the echoes,
Horsemen of the apocalypse,
And crowned with one self
The name displays its foliage,
Hanging low
A green cloud above the forest.
Banks of reed.
Mountains of broken bottles.
& the mortar is not yet dry….
Silent the footfall
soft as cat’s paw,
Sandalled in velvet,
in fur
So we must go,
Wearing evemist against the shoulders,
Trailing sun’s dust sawdust of combat,
With brand burning out at hand-end.
& the mortar is not yet dry…
Then we must sing
Tongue-tied without name or audience,
Making harmony among the branches.
And this is the crisis-point,
The twilight moment between
sleep and waking;
And voice that is reborn transpires
Not thro’ pores in the flesh
but the soul’s backbone
Hurry on down
through the high-arched gate –
Hurry on down
little stream to the lake;
Hurry on down –
through the cinder market
Hurry on down
in the wake of the dream;
Hurry on down –
To rockpoint of CABLE
To pull by the rope
The big white elephant…
& the mortar is not yet dry
& the mortar is not yet dry…
& the dream wakes
& the voice fades
In the damp half-light,
Like a shadow,
Not leaving a mark.
An image insists
from the flag-pole of the heart,
The image distracts
with the cruelty of the rose…
My lioness,
(No shield is lead-plate against you)
Wound me with your seaweed face
Blinded like a strongroom.
Distances of your
arm-pit fragrance
Turn chloroform,
enough for my patience –
When you have finished,
& done up my stitches
Wake me near the altar
& this poem will be finished.
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