Stories of your life

Spoilers for "Stories of Your Life and Others".




      Stories of your life


Being passed a book over a wall, reaching tall overhead,
a book of firmaments she fell into, or so I dreamed.

Through a city soaked by a punctured reservoir,
the adept of musica universalis travels to the tower.
Crushed with the news that there is no beyond,
she feels cloistered and unreal, and a tower grows in her heart,
a curse of many tongues, that she might never understand.

She drowns herself in the study, and surprised,
she recognizes the shape of words bubbling in her mind,
the rhythms of inner space, the logic of the contrapuntal forms
unfolding into the middle like a snail without a limit.
At her appointment to guide the pupils at the tower,
she can now perceive how their lives intertwine,
and how to tweak their trajectories to maximize
healing, growth, and the happy twinkle in their eyes.

With the insight, she deciphers the divine scheme,
and the angels arrive. She marvels at their octopus-like skill
to dance the eight movements of a symphony, one against two,
one against three, two against three, each pair playing off the other,
a ritual of relation, a form of the ultimate form.
They come for help, and they will have help from us,
they will have been saved. And she is serene, she does not regret
the pained back, and she will choose this day, as she had.

As she learns the angels' langauge, she analyzes life's circle,
the square of the triangle. The Canaanite letters guide muscles,
and the epicycles unroll like budding roses. She choreographs
the movements of the cooking automata, to let the tired folk
rest that bit more at night, with a gratifying nourishment.
She programs toys for little children, teaches kids the letters
as they mold the clay, and the sculptures play music.

The light scatters through the clouds of an abrupt storm.
A kind heart, a joyful ride, a quiet visitation of fallen angels,
a hand grabs one by the edge of a window, the floating in the air,
and she does not ask to give back, but to make your own decision.

not a poem

    not a poem


I write to you because of your blonde, long hair.
I write to you because we never talked.
But I don't write to part the blue sea.
I write to you so I don't guess stories that are yours to tell.
To meet you in the liminal space, at the skin of thought.
To let you step as a novice beside me.

[an offering]

            ***

Relax into the hillside panorama coveted by mist
with the courage of a pine tree, plunge into stillness,
ground the toes with quiet precision,
till the foot is grown over with muscle and moss,
get carried away by the mountain stream
with the lightness of gliding autumn leaves,
inhabit the doe leaping into the stage's legs,
fill the breast with another life, an offering.




---

With some help from D. and M.

riding the elephant

      riding the elephant


The man touched the trunk of the elephant and thought it was a rubber snake.
The man touched the leg of the elephant and thought it was a pillar.
The man thought of the bark that the elephant could eat,
of the roots. Of the crossing of the Alps.
Of the space elephants, cargo starships.
Of the false dawn that wakes you up for a shift.
The man thought of the brain of the elephant,
more transistors than cells in a human,
more dreams than from Scheherezade,
among them, a gentle game.
It's the man's move.
An option, touch the cold descent of his second orbit of Neptune.
An option, celebrate by inviting the woman for a drink in a French cafeteria.
An option, build more units to prop up the economy.
There is time enough
to plant willow trees
and soak in the rain.





---
With help from DSJ.

Earlier attempts for "to plant willow trees": "to plant the seeds", "to sow the tree seeds".

Seven of Nine

            Seven of Nine


Nine ducklings
Seventh the ugly duckling

The swan
forever attracting

of clarity

      of clarity

Run, run for the splashing train,

but pick the threads of tonality.

Settle in the denim sound,

rocky marks of a bridge pass by.

Spoon a vegan yogurt of berries,

scoop with the wrist the bottom notes.

Trains and raining.

Oh the reverie.

The sun-battered soil

wrung by the vines,

the practiced strength of the unseen,

like the lungs in a flute,

or the switching of hands in a melody,

the texture of the chords, the sapphire of grapes,

played not for the tasting.

The chime and the clearing in the sky

ask to tap one's way out through the crowd.

On the count of three, alight.

On the count of eight, slide through the puddle's smile.

Die Lichtung greets her fellow students.

The lecture starts. The topic is reharmonization.

Psycholinguistics of music.

Conceptualizing strategies for learning.

Cognitive and affective development.

Sociological intervention.

A dance studio decorated with unfolded fans.

Put on tap shoes over worn-through tights.

Write with percussive virtuosity

an invitation to attentive pupils,

clap in syncopation,

a Broadway polka

and a slide across.

Shower, streets and stairs.

Beetroots, beans and broccoli

or cauliflower.

Feeding the heart, sharing in the night.

---

Written October 3rd - 6th, small update 9th.

ideal glass

      ideal glass


in an aikido class
the sensei's rolls slow down
he becomes a white stone in the river

in an undersea movie
a torso of salt water
where is it going?
like a magnifying glass
exploring the room

the river moves in unison