A NATURAL TENDENCY
A NATURAL TENDENCY
some minds take pleasure in counterpoints
absently answering some deep call
they move in a hushed, ice-clear trance
and lucid, inescapable rhythms, low beneath
so to beseech them as full as for it
the inexorable growth
the signal to a sacred plea…
a little later when the sky is black
tattered pieces of a masquerade,
together with a voice, clear and loud
resound in a hymn to the Healer
obliquity is all the rage
and all the things that are red
and all the things that are vain
and all the ones that continue to contend with one’s ideas
THE CALM SOLILOQUY BY THE OCEAN
Like a temple in our eyes
infinite in a tendential sense
in a most intimate attitude.
Shadows, it might be other that they seem,
they bind it geometrically.
I am closer to a secret
that doesn’t reach my conscience
it explores different degrees of fear.
The delicate tact of the cornea, the eyelashes.
Within this limitless or at least vast container
I cannot hope for interludes,
the light of reason reveals the great resemblance,
how else can truth be ascertained from illusion?
Likeness follows likeness
leading from sightless imagination to the real of the real
I remain silent; Heidegger couldn’t have fathomed
a blueness that only bees understand.
The Patriarchal Bed With Four Posts
THE PATRIARCHAL BED WITH FOUR POSTS
A spider builds with nothing…spit, the dust, some geometry. Ants, on the other hand, turn survivors around the room, sprouting where you least expect it, between the bristles of a toothbrush, in a wad of cotton wool, in books.
He saw them on the edge of a cup of tea.
His mind opened its vein in a dream. Lying on the bed he fixed an encrustation on the wall, a stain a crack. The crack in the attic, near the portrait of Schopenhauer widened, while the light oscillated and shook the wall.
By force, which we do not foresee, we help fate but we help it in vain. Mythos means story, but the myths are silent. A light bulb transforms the human being from a creature that would spend about a third of every day groping in the dark the incredible fragile nature of a curved, white milk globe, protected around an even more fragile filament…a counterfactual perception on the dependence of human sight…on the rhythm of the earth's rotation.
This poem was published on Vanguard Anthology#3