BALLADE
& always a dangling sleeve
that touched the table brushed the table
in one movement a beard pointed Cortez
aware of attention eyes lifted above ocean
eyes piercing white sclera
wind drilling the pupil
scratch of ivory on bone...
then movement again
piano keys tinkling
nails tapping trills on the ivory
before the music of the song
five lines danced in a wide void
the hub of a chorus of voices
gouged a groove in tunnel walls
nothing ever appeared in the octave
save eight shredded eels
& the fumes of a gill
such does the loom unweave
conversation talk down the wall
talk each brick back to the pile
in freshness of silk falling
silk billowing
in lichen moist on the windowframe
uninvolvement
like an uncoiled spring
meaningfulness
the whole dividing
halves multiplying
& the swimming organisms
heads talking above fluid things
& always a dangling sleeve
sleeve sinking
silk billowing
& that moist emanence of closely approached odor
the chemicals of low volatility
which may not be smelt from far off
*
cityscape
skyline
string taut autumn
Casals' dawn
photographs taken on the lawn before lunch
they grazed white pavements
stopped where the light seemed warmest
in a time of gold
of essences subtleties shades
perceptions
time was growing
grey then
cold
poetry of the fragrance
went out to piss on the dole queues
*
It was a time
of gold, of white
a time of essences
subtleties, shades
perceptions
time was growing
coppiced each spring
but for you, young lady, not golden or white
time stood still, young lady, for you
At dawn
kong dresses left the Hilton
In a back alley theatre they began
rehearsing a farce
moving into and out of
situations
for you young lady
young lady for you
things were happening in the Provencal
besides cooking
anarchy failed in Barcelona
but more important still
Hemingway's child in "For Whom the Bell Tolls"
did it survive?
did it survive, young lady
for you
*
Fire in the throat
rush of rasping breath
flames flicker in these eyes
this tortured head
hands are blackened
these hands once held the sun
this: black cinder
this: pulsing, reddening, momentary coal
red Earth
shrivelled by black sun
and these
these signs of red in the Night
in this stigmatized city
now waking at night from a half sleep
of prostitution
hearing the whore's voice
at the comfortable time of ease
above the street
above the suppressed Earth
upon his knees
eeping for her love
her embrace
& alone
alone with the bones of old loves
and the warmth of this lament
*
Within this flame
within the yellow within the red
within these sparks at the edge of flame
burns an arrangement
an agreement of atoms
one direction differs little from another
lines of longitude curve over the planet, transpolar
re-arrive at starting points
though singers sing less
songs are not less than they were
and singers not less than the singers
although all prophets become false
in that polar area
where the compass points less truly
to the north assumption
*
Boy
you better go along with all the others
into it with all the mothers blendle sons
who blunt the war and bring us
bring us, caul the mothers
mothers send you sons
mothers blendle sons
brought us into the war
into all of that
you go
they said
shoving their sons out
into all of that
& their fathers shoved before them
and they all shoved
and a shit
and that was the siege end
tho their sons lay numberless
strands like sheep's wool
caught on barbed wire
*
Leaving that language of rancid scrapings
words taken with a spatula from limp tongues
scrape words off from those tongues
in thick curds going almost to the apple
to the root of words...
***
from Ballade.
(C) Chapman, Vol III, No.4, Dick Russell Issue, 1975
