poemimage

A rainy day in almost morning

morning in almost winter 

winter in a ruined monument raining 

upon, stained.

I’m young again she’s making tea

with orange rinds and sweet spices

washing her brushes in the sink

I yawn, breathing triskelion-shaped air.

She wonders have you seen her Franz Marc book

I’m sure it will appear like magic.

The oil paintings of Giorgio Morandi on canvas

remind you of winter or rain

somebody tearing a hole in paper begins by folding

tears dampen her cheekbone

inanimate centipedes in rust skitter-slide down the cave wall

triskelion-shaped jewelry ceremonially worn adorning collarbones

slides beneath half-shadow on the bumpy ledge

warmed by the deafening sun aiming into, yes

well-aimed, as eagles soar hunting, 

the solstice passageway,

beneath watery golden rays

the young man touching thumb to index finger

inhales glorious lungfuls of the older air 

unfolding arms and legs within the invisible rays 

of a triskelion sun

the carnyx sounded deep in memory

the young man conceptually dimensional

observes cascading swirls

spinning like the arms of a forest

weird-wind. winding along. line-of-sight. exposed pattern.

disassembled. reassembled.

knotted. unknotted. sacred formula. column of fountains.

o mystical nature o expressive runes o modern art

o animals o mystical bond o nature o modern art

o mystical nature o expressive runes o modern art

o animals o mystical bond o nature o modern art

A blue horse gallops into the hollow

turning round and round

blue shadow envelops blue shadow

foreshadowing the fate of the animals.

I drink tea with orange rinds and sweet spices

I said the Franz Marc book appeared like magic

but my phone disconnected

the carnyx overwhelming the air.

The young man eating bread

younger than darkness

how darkness might have felt

how quickly one is young, then as now 

how quickly one is younger than darkness jauntily

wearing the scarf lightly 

forgetting how darkness felt.

Listen to the arrangements of roughly-cut spirals

made of paper or thin mimeograph metal

humming

OM

framing the passageway he lingers beside within

as the young lightly follow a spiral into the spiral heart 

pulsing before columns aligned as a proposal

a monument to the deafening triskelion.

The young man wearing a scarf

replaces the ink ribbon in his typewriter

determining pathos comparative to bathos

bathos comparative to pathos

I look up the meaning of both words

peer between sheer curtains

patterned with triskelions falling like snowflakes

outside my window frosted with feathery ships

lightning strikes in a series of strikes

the snowman falls like a banished patriarch turned to salt

or a birchbark canoe floating in white foam

the children of prophecy barely visible in candlelight

continue in silent procession

I taste clove oil on my fingertip – over the telephone we make a plan

the operator interrupts – I look out the window

somebody sitting on top of the telephone pole raises an Iron Age carnyx

animals listen at the edge of the city

twelve angels in a diagonal pattern 4 4 4 fly overhead in a grid

I said to the operator confirmed

she said have they apprehended you-know-who

I said yet to be determined

The paintings of Giorgio Morandi remind you of pathos or bathos

I said you left the water running in the bath

you looked at me like Bathsheba startled

o mystical nature o expressive runes o modern art

folding the letter written in shy cursive

the small-time & sly dealer, off to incarceration

said goodbye

cautioning you meeting with me.

The train pulls away from the empty station 

embers spark, quieting, burn out on the clay-bed

& carved upon the locomotive’s obsidian gleaming surface

incised triskelions sparkle like stars.

I’m young again she’s making tea

with orange rinds and sweet spices

I said I mean the sink

but my phone disconnected

the carnyx overwhelming the air.

The paintings of Giorgio Morandi remind you of bathos or pathos

I said invisible ink is made visible using heat

you looked at me like Bathsheba covering herself

o animals o mystical bond o nature o modern art

folding the letter delivered by courier 

the director of the museum of phenomena

summons you

communicating secretly

only you immediately might save the mystery.

The train pulls away from the empty station 

embers spark, quieting, burn out on the clay-bed

& carved upon the locomotive’s obsidian gleaming surface

incised triskelions sparkle like stars.

I’m young again she’s making tea

with orange rinds and sweet spices

I said plug in the iron to read the words

but my phone disconnected

the carnyx overwhelming the air.

I determine to read

The Power of the Powerless by Vaclav Havel

supposedly soon

But something sooner may appear:

an almanac of magic numbers within a weathered spine

or a mist above the bog appearing out of nowhere

as if in a thought 

or your long-lost triskelion pendent

reminding the telephone operator to

attend night school.

Perhaps The Power of the Powerless is written in the power of iron 

an iron sun lost in the bog

or simply an iron moon.

Something occurred ~ this morning as I yawned

listening to the bird ~ egg and nest 

serenade curvilinear branches ~ of the triskelion tree

overhanging the ancient ~ enchanted landscape

A dozen points converge instantly 

a dozen arrows reach the target

emotions, subjective and objective realities, & art forms converge 

without convergence there is no memory. 

Here & now we see & feel the flying grid of twelve angels

blissfully wed to bone-like shapes 

their nature triskelion-like

washing in the wind ~ sounding the carnyx

washing in the river ~ washing in salt

warning of the psychological dislocation of a society without convergence

verily, verily I warn thee.

The messenger drinking water from the canteen

treasures the distance between buried clay hills 

racing the wind he throws down his arms

kneeling to press one ear beside clover blooming

voices darting through viridian-green weeds 

ivy-like spiral at the base of round towers

echo inside the curving walls

spinning like the green & brown arms of a forest.

Wind

rising to soften the contours of mounds (blurred)

sustaining the triskelion river-sound (preserved)

dividing above carved log-boats on the river afloat

fishermen cast lightly into the gloaming

the great kerbstone looming

a fountain of clay polishes the worn stone axe

I telephone you.

You are born as promised in the embroidery of magicians

down around the roots of hollow reeds

you divine

dig wet sediment bare-handed

dedicate yourself to ancient law

Down around the roots of hollow reeds 

each innocent assigned twelve avenging angels

down around the roots of hollow reeds, the

sediment coughing up stones for shelter .

In the beginning was the word

buried in the manuscript of river-clay

spinning three-sided.