window in rains,
night´s water runs
to flames molten
in liquid reflection
of distances binding
broken & thin
in the breaches,
water & time
in narrow straits.
they have all gone,
but for the stall,
& then no more
but a space between.
in the gallery
the street is to near to hear
the disseminating day
or the roar that raves
a wave on the hill.
they have all gone
but for the stall
on the knoll.
never over, it turns
the thresholds we cross
through a looking glass,
sighted & sightless.
the clock in the glass
warps in zig zags
moulds without holds
in ice & in fire,
gone in thin air,
face to face
in twin embrace.
ice & fire through narrow straits:
we wear different helmets in the battle,
moulds of our guards of honour
their banners flying royal colours
to come & go, as we must, we do it well,
pass on, buy & sell contribution,
but wear different helmets in the battle,
to but appear & disappear
as the sky gravitates our fall
to no sky at all, no vaulted arch
over ice & fire, ice & fire,
words that once set alight the knolls
& now grow old in a book of sand,
ancient mysteries, unuttered
& untold, lest they explode.
i return to a narrow strip of land,
in banquets in display of poison bouquets;
a world - a description fulfilled:
their cemeteries & their dreams
phantoms of the moon´s,
bride in ice & fire
of creation myths & ruling powers,
of deities fallen to common thrall,
sand timers of our candle hours,
primal desires in the limits of first fears,
ice that breaks the rock
& thaws to time's articulated perception,
unfathomable longing & impossible question,
image made flesh, voice, the gravity of motion,
she in earth in moon of he of sun of sky,
a line with no other representation
but its manifold variation, engendered
of sky rent asunder from earths´s embrace,
beyond becoming, returning or remaining
or the poles in the edge of what is & is not
in & of from ice, from fire
in narrow straits
in a few days i´ll have left this room
this room visited through
i remember clear days,
days bright with life, not here, now,
today is neither bright nor clear.
dust of my tracks
stain indelibly, where light struggles
to gleam yet & if it does
it is a glimpse, no more,
on the tracks
of this shore.
i have been here before,
have stood in other ruins
that i´ll not remember, as this one,
which i leave,
where once bright days
spilled through its bars
& lingered on the floor.
last look at the skylines,
la maliciosa, no footnotes.
once three lean spanish cats
ate the kitchen lice by night.
borgesian strindburg theatre,
ether of the nether other,
the rain in spain stays mainly
on the green house effect plain:
bafflement reigns, eerie speculations,
skies scorch, spring’s buds are nipped,
nature amok, her spawn wild, reckless
her tide, the stars pursue their courses.
cat’s eyes watch you from the mirror,
you gaze into them, they blink close,
the mirror is all fur :
the greater than i am thou, that:
to know you know what it is like
with all consolations from nature.
you ask who´s in the house,
outside & out of sight
the moon´s ebb is a communion.
you see through trees’ convoluted branches
a house of stars whose littered scales spangle
the leaves of branches that grow darker still
in their reaching to unfold ancient & fettered,
down wind their voices
carry with the voice of the turning moon,
the call of their unfathomable pleading.
in narrow straits.
Copyright robin ouzman hislop 2004
all rights reserved.