siphe
12-06-2014, 10:08 AM
I am no wave thing.
I'm no Moses basketed; noosed to the
hip of an ocean; born to be carried
away by the tide thing.
I'm not poised to dip and dive and die
under this rubble and salt and sky
and under these sea-men, better sea-
monsters, who've chartered their
unlicensed vessels on my intimate
things.
With neither caution nor care they
trailed and left their spills there,
made of my darling dainty bits a
meadow to serpent and slick their way
in.
Their embers hang there a while like
this heap of bad memory nestling
tranquil between the whittling walls in
my mind.
But I'm no wave thing.
I'm not a thing that breaks at the wake
of the beam- winds or the pull of the
night sky;
never created for that slow fall and rise
and fall and rise,
where the depths and heights they
reach don’t even move them,
don’t even change them no more or
ever,
How they look like the eve's tears and
damp and fog and keep clinging to dry
and parched things
How they baptise bodies and mouths
to get nothing more than themselves
back in lesser form.
Cannot be that blind a thing,
synchronized and moved by ferrous
tides to nowhere and everywhere at
the same time
and back and fill thing
and blue and black to reflect the
moods of the sky thing
the pulse of the ocean, the heart of its
tides,
yet torn in the bosom by unlicensed
bodies who poise their weight to ride
you in timed procession and repeat.
There is no balance on such wayward
sea
So this night I make of this heap a
ledge to carry me to the periphery
make of the memories a way-landing
to a looming island from this grief
burn their vessels in my mind
Make of the fumes and these hurried
prayers my waves to the Master shore
And the waves will carry me there
The waves will surely carry me
I'm no Moses basketed; noosed to the
hip of an ocean; born to be carried
away by the tide thing.
I'm not poised to dip and dive and die
under this rubble and salt and sky
and under these sea-men, better sea-
monsters, who've chartered their
unlicensed vessels on my intimate
things.
With neither caution nor care they
trailed and left their spills there,
made of my darling dainty bits a
meadow to serpent and slick their way
in.
Their embers hang there a while like
this heap of bad memory nestling
tranquil between the whittling walls in
my mind.
But I'm no wave thing.
I'm not a thing that breaks at the wake
of the beam- winds or the pull of the
night sky;
never created for that slow fall and rise
and fall and rise,
where the depths and heights they
reach don’t even move them,
don’t even change them no more or
ever,
How they look like the eve's tears and
damp and fog and keep clinging to dry
and parched things
How they baptise bodies and mouths
to get nothing more than themselves
back in lesser form.
Cannot be that blind a thing,
synchronized and moved by ferrous
tides to nowhere and everywhere at
the same time
and back and fill thing
and blue and black to reflect the
moods of the sky thing
the pulse of the ocean, the heart of its
tides,
yet torn in the bosom by unlicensed
bodies who poise their weight to ride
you in timed procession and repeat.
There is no balance on such wayward
sea
So this night I make of this heap a
ledge to carry me to the periphery
make of the memories a way-landing
to a looming island from this grief
burn their vessels in my mind
Make of the fumes and these hurried
prayers my waves to the Master shore
And the waves will carry me there
The waves will surely carry me