Night, sweetness of silence,
Sadness of pause between the vital strain
The Earth inciting by the highway hard,
Slim stars indulging in emotion’s gain;
Separating hours of the tangled trial,
And linking more than history or hearts
Or tortoise years false progressed yard
Upon a hill that neither ends nor starts.
And are yet pursued as nights pursue the days-
With equal need the heart pursues its death-
Through time, a timeless and methodic maze
Unfit to time itself between the pulsing stars.
Night, sweetness of all wonder I desire,
Love, living as it should, without a breath
Of contract till the days of sight expire,
Death, sweetness of silence.
Deputizing for yourself
The figures are not dangerously active.
Can never play the stock-market;
Hunt for lost treasures or race motor cars.
They are examined by negative surroundings
Their strength the customs of destiny,
Whose attendance is the colour of earth.
They work their own fate
Damaged by your hands
Into uniforms of being.
Who will buy inflections?
Some weary Hero of the Arts tired of the gloss?
A Mendicant stalling for time?
Or cynical investors, who will cover this apparition
with speculations and cloth?
A cat jumped down,
And my nerve’s neck was broken
From the enmeshed study of an evening.
Then an egypt-eye craned from the books,
Calling the future a fool,
And love’s daughter a prostitute.
Here in the revelling rocks of town-
in the tantric tumors of ink-
And the stone-grained thoughts
My nerve’s neck was broken.
Each speculator growls remote
From the liquid in his throat,
And the mindless will obey
The sap and tedium of dismay.
But the full of bliss will be
Covered for eternity,
And the full of truth enjoin
Head and heart, hand and loin-
So the full of art can say,
‘Sing the devil out the way’.
There are not only complexities,
As to the symphony of windless feathers,
Too many toils and blankets of skin
Follow the smoke-stacks and fired souls.
Armies and the remedy of time-
Are fools in the fragrance.
Power and the remedy of rhyme-
Are tools in a blind eye.
More stars than people! They play above our heads,
Comfortable in their skies, and seed and fall
Endlessly towards a future-perfect tense.
And we, we also, burn and beget upon our beds,
Uncomfortable with histories – whose more than tall
Ghosts, charge us with their atavistic rents-.
And yet, this sufficient world where lying people
Perform ever the cadences of truth;
In stellar violence with a seasonal theme –
The lively vaudeville, whose puerperal
Curtain-call will raise the roof,
To make theatre-space from a dream.
These events, coloured with blood, the red stars
We call our children – unimaginable the gain
For a universe whose epicentre
Is the whole in the heart – whose scars
Repair our loss, advertise our pain
And delineate the advent in adventure.
Always more life than death, where futurity
Demands an ever recurring series;
Wherein we place the possibility of what can be,
Before the NO, before the wait of eternity,
Before the strait-jacket of theories;
Made by man to comprehend the a + b –
-Of why there is something rather than nothing-