In utter darkness,
around it all;
above all times,
the bluebirds are chanting the same old songs.
The dragging days;
the drunken dawns.
I witnessed the race of the alarm clock
with the secret nights;
then begged for nothing but the tricks of the light,
waiting for the red rose to reveal.
I sensed the truth of your lips.
Infinite.
Quiet.
A thousand sips of 1997,
not event the slightest glance,
will turn us back to last December.
S
Happy first blog post of twelve twelve.
… So tonight we read this brilliant poem, The Chateau Harware, by John Ashbery in our workshop and I thought to share it with my lovely readers, to whom I’ve been unfaithful:
It was always November there. The farms
Were a kind of precinct; a certain control
Had been exercised. The little birds
Used to collect along the fence.
It was the great “as though,” the how the day went,
The excursions of the police
As I pursued my bodily functions, wanting
Neither fire nor water,
Vibrating to the distant pinch
And turning out the way I am, turning out to greet you.
Stay tuned for more (and even more).
S
“A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know.”
(Girl in a watch cap, NYC, 1965)
The green nude dancing through her eyes;
their faces are cold from the sea beneath them
and the black cherries within their veins.
Their smiles aglow smoothly, their hands taste sweet,
and their temptation remains a mystery
not to the red plantains,
but to you and me.
S
My eyes roll to my right,
and the red danger sign
flashes under the sun.
And on left, there is nothing
but a green floral pillow case
and four more stares.
On the back of my head
I still feel the pain of the
empty bottles and the
words that I never remember.
I smell detoxification.
In my very front, I am heading to
the lightness of my destiny.
In my ears,
“I still do”.
S
Something inside them is
falling to pieces. Big smiles are failing like flakes;
they hide behind the blue bricks.
Storytellers reveal the toxic waste,
and Sylvia sings “the night dances”.
“A smile fell in the grass. Irretrievable!”,
she once said.
The world still moves in beats
without the lost boys and
last autumn moments.
Even ours.
S
Far from the “closer” days,
way beyond the leaves,
pale clouds are chanting
loud with aggression.
She closed her eyes to
what’s called “yesterday”.
Black and white grapes,
a bar of music are all she desires.
She hated the light.
And rain?
Never.
S
She is not his; he is not hers.
She, her heart is pounding gently
like the floating whales in the Pacific;
and he, he is lost in the pond of lust.
The seconds are dragging into decades.
The secrets are turning into goddamn lies.
The diving bells are on strike,
so are the embroidered angels and the butterflies.
Cry baby cry;
till you are lost as the
midnight light is lost in dark.
Jump if you dare;
into the golden daffodil fields,
till tears stretch in never-ending lines.
S
The scones are baking
and the purple ink is all over me;
so are love and midnight bullets.
He whispers with a smile;
she nods – she is still shy.
Who knows what’s dancing in her mind?
Who cares how many antennas
are reaching out to the wet sky?
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
I made a wish,
just now.
S
