Later, Something Becomes…

Lit by the light thrown onto it,

a partial image – the thing itself becomes

a reference to something seen before.

Stone-quiet, the thing itself

pressed like a flower, becomes forty words 

I draft slow enough, but only just

to interpret something inanimately projected,

saturated with a longing to retrieve its zest, its spirit

though its fragile construction sits motionless becoming

but a spare moment I want to recreate – to make luminous

its flatness in its passing, passing through utter abstraction, 
linked to the indefinite duration of a briefness progressing –

upping its effect, an unnatural light in the room cast upon its face,
and now to poeticize it – it itself without any soul, forty words
having somewhere to go, each becoming a part of something.

. . . . .

a winged thing bulks in the dark / painted in stillness / regal its bearing / needing 
nothing / the act of inscription / in this public space / austere walls / granting excess 
access / filtering through the light / less and less / a part of something splayed

That Which Is Said

The eyes, level with the trespassing light, enter an impinging forgetfulness.
Fearfully the mind swings in upon itself, making sure everything is in its place.

In an adjacent room memory pours out plagued by an uncertain fatigue –
almost there's a sense of the fragility of time, of the hours lost in its passing.

. . . . .

Inquisitively a weary mind wanders inside that which is said, 

while a faceless abstraction sustains philosophic proportions

ambiguously sketched within another set of chimerical eyes

transiently shifting inside the impossibility of this poem's 

fu      r

  t  h

e   ra

n            c  

e…

. . . . .

As it is dreamt, a sharp sweetness
wedges itself into the innocence of sleep.
Holding it so, the dream, with no hint of space
or timeless time spindles round, intermingling
with the blossoming of the imagination.

ɛtˈsɛtərə

on entering / a loneliness re-patterns a rise of curiosity / something striking found / in bits of hidden commentary / a series of combinations / gathered in a different way / it may, however, be / an accumulation of / something endlessly inventive / when for a moment / the discourse concludes / confirming nothing / depending on the way / the telling is formed / t–o–g–e–t–h–e–r / with the gift of an idea / prompting one / traveling alone / in the dark / to skirt an edge / to enter everything / of self / of the world / of what is said / of what is pictured / all, in the waiting / in a reflection uttered / in clear quiet eyes / within the mode of memory / curling round / repetitions of breath / patient in whatever comes / and so forth…

From All Directions

Of everything –

completely.

And I said: what carries it for you.

. . . . .

My hands

with persistence

find a thing.

It becomes a discussion.

And I said: write of it on a small piece of paper.

. . . . .

Little revealing thing

unintentionally passing

but to consciousness.

And half-consciously I said: the eye hungers for it.

. . . . .

Of everything –

completely.

And I said: what carries it for you.

Places Of Transit

Silent. Invisible nearly.

An old tree full of aged fruit.

Through this appled forest how glad we were to run,

playing hide-and-go-seek. And always the hours worked out alright.

Apples – sweet and soundless, fallen now to the ground, and of which 

there are many, garbed in lime greens and the brightest of reds.

. . . . .

“What we seek, at the deepest level, is inwardly to resemble, rather than physically 
to possess, the objects and places that touch us through their beauty.” 

– Alain de Boton

. . . . .

Branches full leaning down, away from a polished sky of blue,

greeting the hand that craves their fabulous fresh flesh.

All things in their season – steady, swiftly coming and going.

Growing, some imageless in their own private space.

Now, something else.

Without waiting, we steal a bite.

Silent. Invisible nearly.