ROSE PLUM BLOSSOM
Scent of rose plum in the gentle rain
that soaks the garden. Blossoms brushing
the dripping eaves. Conversation in an undertone
behind the brocaded curtains of the door.
Eyes, bright eyes, never evading mine,
measuring the depth of sentiment
the mood evokes - the mood, late hour,
and the moon shadowing the blossom on the floor.
These shining boards, these shining eyes; fair skin,
so smooth, a magnet for tense kisses. Music
at a distance; pattering rain.
PRESERVERS
About the island, every hour or so,
locked in embrace, the wheeled joined lovers go
flesh on flesh. Mind to mind they meditate,
blind to the flouncing world's cascading veils
of illusion, consummated nakedness
their emblem. These two, dead yet living, drawn
glass-sealed between the chariot's gilded shafts.
New-born, their own dark star above them looms,
engulfs the visible heavens. Super novae
gleam, wink out and soon are utterly gone
leaving not a speck of dust behind,
dark nothingness become their velvet bed.
The rest is silence and the rest is peace.
But still the watchers stay the world. Diffuse
however, they must contain the void and feed it,
prolong the breathing process. In their hands
is any kind of future. The lovers, locked
in their unknowing ecstacy, new gods,
ignore the world they potently maintain
and by their absence feed the waiting flame.
When the dark has smothered everything
these two shall smoulder on amid the ruin
until the bright sun rises and the seed
across the new world shoots its superabundance.
II
In the wake of this interstellar tide
the pulse remains and grows. The groundswell throbs
about the little island; the lovers wake
and stir, their glass sarcophagus shattered, their chariot
smashed. Deity arises; imago glows
upon the transfigured landscape. The watchers dream
recurrent nightmares, scream and burst their chains.
A new sun rises and shall never set.
New wisdom fills the sky, the earth, the mind.
Glorification is the living norm.
Dust and ash are dancing and renewed.
5 апр 2015
