Whispers in the Silence
Now blown in different airs, falling
I am like the balloon, light and pregnant
In the sensation of dangerous knowing.
I am the many parts of a heart which beats in different bodies.
I shall write predictable lines that cry for consummation:
About postcard beauties in the rough centre
About solemn emptiness, about lust and the story of blood
and forgiving, forgetting, forsaking, foreboding, forewarning …
And I, surprised at the deft cruelness of guided exile
Walking through the corridors of cold stares, still
I am here, dreadlocked, in an open space, an invisible wall
Solid as glass, my fingers find your face, but you are far away.
For it was in your first image that I dwelt most.
In the quiet explosion of lights
Your face always flowing, screaming back, in the silence
The fathom of unspoken sighs deep as the rivers.
So does my singer sing in vain?
Not one limb is left by the curse,
Though far from the boiling point
There’s no ceasefire in the spleen.
Not one tear remains where congeals the blind weal in Earth’s eyes
Not one stone is left, in the gouging of Laughter…
There’s no ceasing in the carving of pain
Will my voice thus grate in vain?
So how shall I score you in the keynote of this poem?
As the lover who took away the breath and the warmth?
Or as the friend who pointed at the market of no return
Where elves rule, where souls are signed on simple ‘rithmetic of ruse?
Or may I forget you as the deft contraction of apostrophes
As the tender promise which evaporates like the dew?
May I ask you to mock me as the harsh wind mocks the boneless ear?
Vomit me now into the sea of forgetting, I shall be free.
Sentinel Poetry (Online) #43 - June 2006. ISSN 1479-425X
The International Journal of Poetry & Graphics...since 2002. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede