We Sing The Wind's Caress On Our Skin: Twenty Sonnets
Posted 5:22 PM by AD in Labels: collab poem, essay, for nazi tour guide junjun saguid, ink polaroids, sonnets, transitionI
Out of the flame a body to forge with words into a god who breathes fire.
II
Begins with nothing and returns to mark our presence in syllables whirling into being his beloved's laughter.
III
The sound quivers, takes years to caress, becomes solitary, sings.
IV
A story strung together between walls built for your deliverance is now stuck behind the wall, for lack of any other name. You say, "Break it." We witness the first crack.
V
Here is a room where a man lies to a woman. he says into her ear words like "this morning," "another day," "no time."
VI
One of them will whisper many stories. She could say, "The mime danced a love story, 'A woman and a man were brought to their knees by hope or regret in the beginning of a different story.'"
VII
On the table, thirst thrives. "Let me offer you to come pick my bones clean."
VIII
The end began again and again. The boy limped into the room, a pair of scissors held close, his heart meeting the woman's, his hands shaping a word.
IX
This word unfolds to you out of paper (folding its wings, paper).
X
Your limbs breathe out every night a precarious stance down against the floor (something within).
XI
The seasons have intent of pollen and nectar to your garden just beginning to blossom again. What could you do? You can only study. What do I do?
XII
The garden and I gather her thighs her heart like blossoms will dance alone or with.
XIII
Is this ripening a motion to blossom? In my garden weeds grow between your teeth your body an intimate of earth of flowers, yes, this ripening.
XIV
Out of your body light to make everything broken withered crushed splintered beloved ripening. She calls back, a girl your age your light your song. It was she who first knew of you, gave you the gift of weeping. She danced, you cried out to her, "There, your feet shriveled broken lacerated." Your eyes open, images echoing from afar intangible anxious running nowhere. Her answer, "Anguish pain pleasure death are no more than paint. I paint my own vigil as a diptych on silence. Listen:" On this last morning, open a page.
XV
Dead twenty years ago to the light rising to meet my eyes, I want to say, "The dead love, lust, hope.' Instead life crossed. "Open."
XVI
Light rising to merge only now in this garden.
XVII
The light taking leave our bodies motion their own speeches postcard-pretty: an ordinary scene on an October day which will probably be something indestructible.
XVIII
This island with the sea bring to mouth sounds of a language desiring this bird this air skies and mountain this rock with seaweed this rock this air this day seawaves this island desiring.
XIX
Mapped by memory, the island scribes a story: "A revolution was fought - mothers pause to tell the story: 'The churchbells rang; someone set fire to the padre, by noon turned to ashes. I sing this story from your open window near the island shore, the edge water, air, burning.'"
XX
Memory is only a matter of going further - the landscape horizontal, then hands clasping, unmoored, the distance spanned, luminous even now, deep in.
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Note: these were written as monostitches, ie, to be laid out as continuous lines running in the middle of double-page spreads, one line per fragment, all in aid of mimicking the horizontal breadth span of rural landscapes and dead calm sea waters. Only due to the limitations of the blog layout, it is presented here as paragraphs. This is meant to be the second part of a rural travel diptych (as opposed to my usual "urban travel" pieces), the first being the seven-day rundown of ink polaroids prior to this blogpost. These were also written as contribution for Paper Monster Press's poetry zine. Sadly, I did not make the deadline. Any takers here? Send me an eMail!
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