Annual Commemoration of the Divine Passion
You eclipse me & I have stained the Sun with black love . . .
death from a bottle cools my ardour
for a while, until I see you again.
The damp distance is bleached
then blackened with shadows
& flocks of shrill birds, screaming for blood
Bound hands grow swollen
body – silently numbed
a bed on fire I laid upon
now reddened with burning life
In these blistered hours of insomnia
objects are like lead
I believe they are other things & less than they are
as if fewer of them would create
a stillness like sleep
— if only to dream of her again . . .
The cushions beckon in the mirror
white & summoning, judicious
the bed reflected in that fantasy land,
that round pool of hope
Why stir dust on a sacred tomb
as I lay down with a prayer for darkness
a snowflake melts on her virgin eyelids
somewhere & now, together again
we drink every breath of poisoned air
she asleep, I awake . . .
Not believing in resurrection —
I stroll through cemeteries
looking for her name, not wanting to see it
the damp brown earth reminds me
every hour we breathe is our last . . .
Victims don’t want
blind skies
their toil & consistency as mortals
are truer religions than faith itself,
so welcome me as one of them — into your house.
The last star’s neon spark
will be dissolved painlessly.
Morning will knock on the window, still —
like a grey wet wind
slow day will begin to stir.
Livestock shiver in
the cold dawn,
some kind of slaughterhouse morn
the blood drained dreams
dissipate, replaced by
perpetual sameness . . .
Awakened from a long dark dream,
I thought I saw her somewhere in there
the awesome force of sleep’s return
shut me down like wild song
like black amphibious wine
a hollow ghost —
peering senselessly through the cold
window of every lost night
This morning once again
on motionless ground,
& along with it
drinking cold mountain air outside;
refined air, once, our air . . .
Across the crisp cool valley — white snow
blue mountains of decrepit glass & dream
dissolve, in this fresh green brocade
Hope sparkles in the diamond dew
that mirrors the sun
for a minute
while across the way, beyond this place
despair draws its dark curtain of cloud
over the broken road . . .
another day annexed,
closer to you again, I come.
This poem was written as a bit of a homage to Osip Mandelstam. If you haven't read any of his poetry then I recommend you do.
This poem is also
included in my collection of poetry, 'Corpus Delicti.' Available from Amazon
(click the cover image below).
