Saturday Spotlight for October 6th, 2012
letter to a suit of armourWe have both been here before,
Paused, stood, and stared before. And
I have to ask- Is it
the light that keeps you so still?
I've watched it pleading,
its yellow yolk weeping
on the shoulders of
impassive you. It finds no features to cling to.
You look seamless. So tell me,
how did you empty? Was
your person plucked away by a sharp beak? Or did
they wither and decay? Are your bones still
inside? Did you creak
shut like an oyster?
What I mean to ask is
where did your details go? Did you trade
them for a legend, quid pro quo?
And last of all, would you
describe yourself as an elephant skulled accident or
something a little more Faustian?
You're a success, that's for sure:
there's a real crowd here to recieve
your address. You know
what they're looking for:
a scattered palm of bones,
a battle scar,
a nameless quiet they can't remember,
a balmy unknown.
They all look for it. They'll
always look for it. They're in your thrall.
But they'll never find that
sense of an ending. No. Not here.
KnowledgeIn a fever dream, black dooms descending
He lies rapt in stupor.
The windows tilt from his halo, the dry
heat ticking, each death rattle measures light into
reflections- form a periscope. One eye is all
that is needed to see. People
stutter along streets, gloom draped. Voices
soften and stretch, heard through memory and dreaming-
one hundred shadowy watchers meld to tarmac. Only one enters.
Yard lights convulse, scald twilit moments, birds
settling on flares. He blinks,
old as time- skin a coral of waxes, leather from his own glow. Eyes,
molten yolks still glimmer beneath lids, fat sunken. She watches,
notes of orange blossom form
a noose: all her palettes collide. She mothers
all earth- cannot . A beginning with no end, future, past.
Roots run transatlantic, languages bud- tiredness. Immortal,
he doesn't breathe.
He wakes to light dappled through glass and birch.
He was the oldest and the first,
his house heavy with rotting decades. TV
translated static into prayers, sun-blea
Autumn MythsThe seasons form
a marriage of opposites. Two
exalted lights meet, both searching
a sky devoid of allegiance. It reads
like a prelude to creation.
Not cumulus, not stratus or cirrus: instead the
mists lie on gravel-throated greens, entirely indistinct.
We pass with caution through divine riot, knowing
very little except of the carrion: the treetops who
snatch celestial glory, gilt earth with futile pride.
They hope for a metamorphisis of old habits but
instead find fortunes are fleeting- goblin gold,
lifting with the skies as they fill with hoarse gloom.
We gathered some, plucked them from
the air for souveniers. Counted the decay
in seasons, the most innocent of capitalists.
Water is born to the newly naked world. Only
evergreens announce the new heaviness of life
as it falls around us. Synchronously, somewhere
beneath: fire is a constant candle. A shrine,
the chimney stands peerless clothed in whites.
Scarves fall from her swan neck, or feathers. Each
Evening Poems9 o'clock and
a nightingale song
from a starling winged night
in perfect mimickry.
The moon and her mandrake
baby screech whites,
peel trees to bone. Blacks
The stars meet
at hush- Deaf but eternal
jury. Atlas, stung by
each daughter: a pinhole
truth, still naively serene
after all they've seen: from dove breath
to flame. All
is a curse to the lampbearers.
The moon holds court.
Great judge, her metals bleed
into radiance, cleave twilight to hill.
She bobs socketless
through aether and flame, &
to her gleaming calm
all shadows die. No illusions survive
but reflection, who steeps wood in
moonwhites, petrifying old life into
holds voice at night's throat -
pulls light through sea's veins
and tightens light's rope,
weaving candle across
the skyline to bless
something older than memory,
more tender than breath.
a will o wisp promise