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