Consent simmers like grass under your breath

ebullient as the crow in the morning who flees

pernicious battles, out of spite not fear, not

the high priests of compunction, prudently clad

in thick hides.

 

Tasted salt of the sea, salt of the earth,

glistening crystals turned to eyes that see and are seen,

allusions of dignified resistance heavy as lashes and wings

never spoil a contest (or is it conquest).

Assent is ascent. Ancient, acidic and steep. And sweet.

Like a pinprick with which winds tested my resolve,

when someone else was me. But no more

should you be ashamed of your vaingloriousness,

than I of kissing your neck, that flows like a balanced wine

in a rotund sacredness of glass.

 

Sighs are the coin now, no doubt.

Let us sigh the years to sleep.

What you need, Is to put behind all that troubles

You,

Is what you need,

A smelted smile, that rises ‘bove the ashen faces of the scrimmage

A golden coin upon which I have carved truncated similes

Gloss

Centrifugal frugality, egregious interaction, dim, dumb, like

A Chinese supermarket

(onto the crescent morsel has your eye fallen, befallen, fallen)?

Now, as though flown through a tunnel of time, little pigeons

With golden hearts and sad, know-all gaze, lightly

Seducing thunderbolts with the flight of daring, Now they were set upon like hapless newlyweds in their forties

In their abandoned chapel, by a brigade of gnomes, airborne

Droplets of human compunction. Among them were

Old gnomes, their yellow eyes buried in leafy chronicles

Middle-aged gnomes, heavy with mushrooms and rainwater

But the young ones stayed behind, smoking. And there were no, nor would ever be, gnome children.

Children are plump and sometimes sweet. Gnomes are never either.

So it seemed for once, the pigeons were endangered, and we welcome

That turn of events. State of affairs. We christen our swords,

Nudge our way through the queue. Elbow room has now become

A right, guarded more fiercely than Plotinus’ collected works.

I pushed my cart past history. It was not the aisle I was looking for.

The conditional had then extended its ominous fingers

And gripped and wrenched my heart. It is in its nature

Never to let go.

This desert was a drunk a thousand years ago,

a dilatory stormgiver of coughs.

Immortal epitaphs carved out in its dunes

shone through a parchment of complacent necks

bowed in prayer for freedom

for our nostrils, o lord.

A terse aphorism rising as a mist

over the Hebrides, mistaken for thrones

or crosses, or

most likely noughts.

Thus spoke the Fearless Cunctator

Fabius

and would his volatile calligraphy

perish in abominable waters of oil-rich

perpetual villains?

Oh, how it would.

Water to water a sentry of fish

-eyed marvels have blessed with pontifical foam

ancient communications of waves.

Oh, divine spirit!

Their fins were coarse as their

sparing compliments, their hearts

were beating with marble precision

and the calculated cooing of pariahs

filled their splattered veins.

A mountain presented a different challenge

that no falcon fathomed, and so

no eagle entertained.

And this was their end.

Meanwhile the fish things outlived their eons

in god’s blinking forgetfulness.

Old, old age, you see.

In these woods, my hands were oaks

of wisdom always bound by ink

and you were leaves and stems and butterflies,

as we learned geography by heart

and a map of lonely planets.

The silence falls in raindrops between

The sea of you and the sea of me

Leaves on the surfaces curiously

Arranged into words of Aristotle

.

Light reflects, carries seconds on its back

Little specks of time to where

Even gods are too tired to care

And loss of meaning is no more mourned

.

Let us remain

Unaffected

With your face to the wind

With my back to the stars

Let our silences mesh

Where no speech will suffice

From clocktower

Past

Midnight

A phantom comes carefully

Like an opera guest

.

My arias

Subsiding droplets glued to the window

Stagnant sit unseen on Plato’s Works

 .

In crematoria of greenness

Thicker than Icelandic clouds

A bent, fire-powered man

Growls, yet haughty

Considers baldness, as if it were

A death sentence

So much so

A park outside becomes

Eden rather than Gethsemane

 .

These cracks in earth

A half-finished golem

Or poem

Begging for incessant light

Though it is overtaken already

By the swiftness of creatures

Of his own palatable mind

Called, for contrast, perhaps

Metaphysics

No tak, kim jestem bez ciebie.

Filozofem takim jak każdy.

                                    Czesław Miłosz

 .

Words

In my alien tongue

Alight, enlight

Without remorse

 .

Despair or perish

in an accustomed bout

 .

Of great expectations

Or whatever disgrace

At a bend in the river

Un-had

Surely, something that I should have…

(colonially unhinged, though, how to decide

on this engagement – legitimate? – misappropriated?)

Never heard a splash of water of Sargasso sea

 .

No wonder, then,

I believe

That

I inhabit silences

With much more, shall we say,

Contentment?