pmh
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1/10/2007 1:43:13 PM
nostalgia
staring at a painting you gave me, drawn
with the same two hands that gave it
to me…. and in the dimness of candleglow
listening to music i created out of sad
distance from you,
when i think about it, it seems like an old
black and white picture, shaky and silent so i
dub in my own voices, all that i hear from everyone
is my own vocal impression with inflections how
i remember them, and so also with eyes and
gestures i suppose – but it’s beautiful seeing
all of them swirling in the rain, swinging
towards trees laughing about our size under
glistening black lightspeckled sky, swirling a
hand into an april cold river from the
limestone bed, soft crumble of dirt falling
towards the water, the crispness of clean,
cold hair in my hand as a whisper brushes
by – all of these snapshots are coloured
by the feelings that inhabit them – light
an extension of energy, energy created by
dynamics, dynamics found in action,
action caused by energy
(i realise again that i am only thinking)
when i think of it again the lights seem
to dim, the wax is conquering the flame…
haze of imperfect vision, movement
of dimcast shadows in orange grey
room walls, i see the faces you made
one night – now you are just a shadowvision
(you were always a vision) – the reality
you gave me was a vagueness focused on
beauty and dreams and no matter how
hard i try i cannot see the bad in it –
just the fact that it’s over i suppose –
wheat and hay blow soft like high wind
cloud wisps, small round patches of
cloudshadow make the fields quilt-like
and you and i drive by it, you smoking
a cigarette and i steal a drag –
maybe our whole relationship was me
taking samples of your little pleasures,
maybe it was mutual, maybe you left
me with maybes, definitely i am consistently
unsure of my assumptions, definitely you
made me constantly assume, except for
when we weren’t talking –
when we paddled you steered.
outside in the glorious sun you
shone like the angel of freedom
(all you have to do is leaf through the
beautiful sections and you find yrself
outside)
– that pale glow before me that ingests my
senses finally finely fades and in a dream
it fully reforms into what i always knew was a
memory, not spirits (in form it shapes a feeling
into exquisiteness and love) –
and then i’m walking on a beach (cold waves
slide soft on my sandals) and then i’m calling your
name on top a boulder’d apex of a glacial rock deposit
high on redwine and herbs and i see you
silhouetted sitting over rock ledge, two long cloud
stretches giving you wings – sunset making
clouds red red red solid against deep mauve
sky, two dogs standing on either side of you
talk with each other, and me alone
on a boulder, rock that looks like
the fingernails of god scratched
across (cymbals crash, soft cornets
blow long major seventh)
“ravens always fly alone” you told
me, ‘earthraven’ signed on the bottom of
a painting you gave me (in retrospect
i made the connection) – yet
something about paintings wraps warm
blankets around me; that two
inspired hands can form images from
the soul for someone else to see, to
get affected by, shifting other
people’s colours – it’s magik – art
loosens and reconnects memories,
it adds dimensions to everything it
reaches inside the witness – music
pulls human tribulations from the earth
and lifts them to the sky for cleansing –
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