This page hosted by 
Get your own Free Home Page
This Poetry Webring [ Previous | Next | Skip | Next 5 Sites ]
|
by Philanel
Dawn, the wistful and bright river, Scared off a big black cat, Which ran away and overtuned a bowl, Spilling the leftovers of milk over the waters and banks. . . Suddenly, we've come to know a bewitching soul. It’s high time to kneel and to pray Before coming to God’s great foot and taking off the bast shoe of my hare soul, To launch into the world bare-footed. To float as a beggar through the fairs of malice, To pour into the ears of men’s judgment, But never to put out a repentant hand, Nor to feed with the blood from my mouth. For I would have taken the vows of sacrilegious schema, Strayed among the tittle tattles of devious paths, Only to grow insane or remain just a clay On the earth of ascending rains. Don’t augur to me about the distant lands. It’s life itself is a farewell ecstasy. Thus, so often forgetful and strange, Our life brings us together in kisses. Lay your oaths in ashes like a spent dream, My demon hurries on the tongues of flame. Disperse the assault of times Upon the magical field of today. Receive the haunt of proximal bees, That arrow hurtling through the forest. My demon has gone forever, Absolution is heedless of him. O the low Spanish sky! In the bitter dale, by the mountains pressed against the earth -- an echoing thud -- the riders charge on their white, elongated horses. Ah! . . Their faces are cracked by darkness. Open yourself to me whoever you are, Non-being! I awoke in the midst of oblivion. The night is silvery as willow shoots are, And the geese ramble around my rooms. A stone of silence, I have sunk to the bosom of stillness, 'Neath the numb strands of a crystal brook. To the dreams that protect our thighs as fallow fields, Lose their progeny on a frenzied run, A crucifix stork, I fly, Tearing the dial of the sky, Yet dying upon rebirth. Speak to me from the deadly abyss! Snakes of morning coil into banners, As I trample their bloody lay-beds, The fateful Chuchulin of dawn, Sliding down through trees into gullies. And I wonder if you know why these birches, Not seeing each other, as if frightened or lost, Have waded up to their knees in the grass? All has died, Not breaking the circle. |
Contact the author (Note: no personal queries answered; you are welcome to send your comments about the writing.)
All rights for the materials published in this web site are reserved. If you reprint or copy them without my
consent, you will burn in hell forever.
This page hosted by
Get your own Free Home Page