The tides are risen,

there is nothing left to do but mirth must be found

in the warmth and the dampness of her body
near the shell of her ear and in between her heaving lips
around her throat where she is lighter
every night from hereon the mosquitoes bite and dance
my heart is bound
there is nothing left to do but cry
over the cries that are heard from the distant sea
my hands are tied
every time we realize the fogs still are fallen at our feet
to rise when the sun does and the moon quits
we dream in the heat of the floods
we have won too many battles with the fire,
gathering fierce and whet is the arrow
the senseless blade that by moving slowly
she has been misguiding towards her inviting breast.

There is nothing left to do,

the tides are risen and the lowly still crawl
out from under the sheets of foam and baring their teeth
as crocodiles, his ample chest full of confusion and coal inside his eyes
and we are gasping because we cannot pray we are breathing
because we will die and our children are bare and full and stare at the stars
because we have taught them to live this way,
even when there is nothing left to do
we have taught the children there is life.

That if the tides are risen,

then the fields will glow again soon when we dissipate
past the widening leaves that go on swaying
because there is a law we must obey and the world is simple when we are asleep
and remember the doorway we had built past the fallen leaves,
that it must lead us elsewhere through the narrowness
where we no longer whistle and our tongues are harmless.

May the fields glow again when we are free to roam

the vastness of the fields and the tides begin to pale and the earth to whiten
when there might be nothing more to do but my heart must beat wildly
on to the silence and my untied hands which made his face
will also drop,
somewhere we are safe to dream louder and my children to rise
to a fattening world that is theirs and a law that we must know.

It was today I found the tides are risen and at night the winds will grow
around men fastened to wood and chain whom glowered at the ashen moon
and still believe since the lion has been slain
justice will always be brought to us by the same hand and we will be met again.
The Veil

Around the stairs

the women are pacing and giggling,
their arms are smooth as clean milk and they smell of roses,
around the stairs they had been weeping throughout the morning
staring at the open windows and overhead with lumps in their throats,
at the moth that hovered and settled over the ceiling lamp.
By God! there is despair in every innocent creature
biding and awaiting its time to be sweated out and it might seem as if dew
has chosen a flower but their hairs are full of thorns,
and their skirts flowing now faster than the river and their eyes they point us towards
the riverbanks, they are still full of hope and light.

Around the stairs they are waiting for me

my women are glorious and hardened
with their soft arms crossed and wanting to outstretch their hands,
their thinning mouths grim and wanting to smile,
their flesh pristine and clawed at every night, their bleeding wombs pierced
every night they are not forgotten about.
By God! what has been done in the name of our names?
Because when I first fled you, sisters,
it was only because I had been promised love.
And if the virgin’s veil could have kept us apart,
then there we would have remained,
near the shier birds and clearing mud off the rosebuds.

But towards the life I will climb down the steps

and telling myself it is courage blown into me I will remember
you or every time you laughed and rushed for me and remember
there must be a reason to forget how furiously it is that I remember
that we were together all of those times and
brighter of head and prouder in spirit and even moreso stronger,
always that we are still stronger than our daughters
will ever remember us.
Sparrow

There is also the ongoing war between sparrow and stone now–
it has been pecked at and it had been picked at as if a wound and your yellow strings
have been replaced around my wrist and fingers by the color red,
because the sparrow has lost its way this summer, it’s uncertain if the stone is a seed
or if he can bring it into his beak and then inner. I have felt so, my darling,
when trying to feed off of you or lend you a hand, and I have thought so, that sometimes
the crowds of sparrows seem to bury things in secret whilst whispering by my feet,
they seem to have a hint they will eventually grow and that there is a welcoming darkness
inside everything and inside the earth, from which ribbons of life bloom and love is
as much about thriving through it and getting out as it is heavy-- a lonesome affair.

Thus there is this ongoing war and other white candles I have been lighting because I am told
they might bring you back to me before spring rinses the high grass.
And I even promised the sparrow I would carry his stone and bury it for him,
if only he would tell you this much, as clear and loud as you need to hear it:
That I am lastly ready to lose,
and that if you are still as brave as you were, then you should be too.

I told him too something else I found scattered over the ground as advice:
That during wars then every loss in the world we go through
brings us back some of the lost breath we had given it away–
that you once robbed me of and that meant it was still good,
that something between us still rang truer than the rusting northern breeze–,
this is so that we can go on and bury both seed and stone
alongside the flesh and all of those bones
surrounded by death and that once meant life had been made and meant moving
forwards and away until something called us back again.
Then I pleaded that he would sing to you, because I no longer do
and there is nothing worse than the missing in the silence
and you will all be so dearly missed.
.
Paris, 1943 ?

To ALL whom it may concern, my conclusions remain the same.

In truth, they are inconclusive, and further investigation is a requirement; further capacity to investigate
the phenomena I have been delivered to, that I have dedicated myself to through a constant endeavor to
explain what had seemed to me, from the start, unwavering and unnatural. What do I seek to explain?
Foremost, I have the desire to direct myself to you, men of industrious faith and that the spirit of
inquisitive pursuit has been deposited restless in the heart; your advents are injurious, you ostracize me.

colorful
estranged from the flesh and the muscle; tightening, constriction, congestion. Resulting from the
aspiration
nightmare.
???
WE must not withhold or
abandonment
The motion is inconclusive
carry the responsibility
[…....…………………]
occlusion
botch
pleuri
lisossome
There is still the rainfall,
strike and foliage, phalangean
phali
philistine
placated the urge to
the disease functions through exemption expulsion depletion the coronary
crude
dwindled
impaired
waned
undermining the roots

Practical
The child currently directs at me misled respect.
Carry me through the expansiveness of the night;
it is the entirety of the hour which abates me \\ weakens me
to have me traverse the domains
dread
urgency

the lanes are in bloom; steadily yellow flowers will litter the streets
ca
Chorale

“Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my
soul is even as a weaned child.”
– Psalm 131:2 (KJV)

Lord! The truth is

in the silence the movements of bodies
acquire a certain precision,
a type of timeliness and then the pupil grows
dilatory and our tongue more friable than theirs –
their steps which hurried
past the ere empty corridors, where dust
grew upon beds of dust and welcomed
the acerbic boys which used to smoke
a stolen pipe leaned against the bedewed column,
under the cross and by that corner.

We have clamored long, from body to body,

basking in the scent of sweetened blood and its drying,
and understanding nothing of satiety – only of joyousness,
we have fluttered every wing and turned at every direction
but finally made our way towards the inscribed
names left behind the paintings, to read the names that might be revealed
by other hands, those murmurs behind walls where they had told us
the silent ones had chosen to become their own grave,
(but oh! they murmured greatly in the language of mercy!)
and announced to us one of them instead had hung,
that once his cradle denounced had been left and prior to his wedding
it was the gravity of living that by choice he understood,
and that his limbs had swayed and his neck been seized
by the righteous rope, looming over his own shadow,
for then the pleasure was one, then
the ardor had been soothed and that he wrote of the endless wick
reminding us nothing had been missed,
the fumes they were fragrant and white – but too a close friend
of his had been caught afire, we were told of flames rinsing and arising
from his bare feet, but the stone withstood it and the wood witnessed it,
and all their crosses were made of wood.
Since that day we have clamored long and beseeching our own fingers
have dug tips first into the arms of bodies that longed too
to have their arms discovered, that something slowed the vein
and abated their every other thirst, and content
to perpetually guess at his name we have smiled at
the new children and condoned their new sounds, made questions to grasp
at the surety of ignorance and relished in the merriment of their play
which dislodges the spirit for a while,
and ultimately set loose it will shape itself towards the light,
towards a path where the light is the lead and it follows;
all throughout we are taught not to lose hope and the instrument is faith,
dull rather than sharp and the past has it proven and its exercise
is the proof – Lord! The truth is
we have clamored longingly for it, the truth of spirits and that most of us
if not all, we have lost our voices in light of clamoring,
from body to body and in the vigilant silence there is a surgical precision
that should be understood only as Your kindness.

Lord! The truth is only one and I am weakened by sight, the truth is
the body is blind and living – the names compelling us,
and my name bears the quietude of matured blooms and hides in the earth.
Lord! The earth I tread and where upon I plead for every truth.

Brothers,
what I have been murmured! Brothers of song,
belated and betrothed to fate, you must
remember the psalmody of afternoons gone on by
in the gorgeous gardens, and how you toiled! by the threshold of the temples and
around
the pears and their trees, the threats of swollen figs and wasps,
when laughter slumbered in our breasts.
Sisters,
what has been revealed! Sisters of fasting,
fastidious and fast asleep atop the grasses, marred by soft greens,
you must remember the dampened curls of yours
that you had fastened to the nape and how you sweated! in the light
forgetting whatever it was that sought after revenge
weighing down your hollowed throats.

Clasp thus thine hands,

my weary friends, for time again be it
that time it hath a method tried –
and awaken thineselves for the gains of trial –
clip your tresses and trim the thorns.
II. High Priestess \ V. Pope (in between us the trinity)

My writing is an attempt
at divinity, leading towards the sacred,
it is an exercise in the possibilities of holiness,
a testament in the faith. My writing is an art in this way.
Bled muir\mara\mare*
verb: mhair – to persist, to remain alive, to last, to continue

Behold! Rushed rushing rush past the rivers of march

the stream rambunctious rumbling down to the stones
tossing tried and ensnared within spirals; spare love for
spiraling! and inspired follow me in my sorrow, riveted by
sorrowful songs in the lips of the moon, storming moors and morrows
mellowed that have marred the landscape of loss – love her!
dart toward the alders dormant-dry that dream their dorsal
spines to curlicues become and spurn or sigh sweeter – spot the starling
purpling even in the tidal gloaming.

Beware! Known not now is that venturesome vast lot of stars

that brought me peace and served me proof or the lowliness
of my weeping resolve and the loudness of weight – love her!
and long for a terrible burning paler than shadows long mine,
how it blemish’d at the blurs of flesh and the heart is a darkened pit
from the moment it’s dropped as a plum; moreso! is alighting
from the moment in the brooks when the marshes that have become
mudfrogged and mired in doubt and darker yet than the dark of depth unknown.

Be then the beating and the firmness of treading on – love her!

love her on! the firming of the branch of yew and bedewed is my brow
and burrowed in the choke of clouds til brightness is firmly bore
by the shoulders born unto mine and in the wilderness must one bear
the wood of willows bless’d and the sweeping of the wind; wind down
that swarming war and hold no fear
and have no hope in the spear. But love! in the tempest
of rare breath and hair scarring over bare breast.

Because there is stinging in the shallows and dozing of the reeds

everywhere there is air and blood in m y eardrums,
on the tongue there is blood and through the mouth it was
that waste was wrung and iron song
is still sung for the awe of our children and for the victory – love her!
that must befall the braver marcher
with steadier foot well ruled and righteous in the rough bluing of the vein –
but minding the bloodblue flowers, but loving them!

You are also there,

felled your legs are bending and molded
to your wet bed of stone,
the moss confused with your summer greens and your hands folded over your
loins.
There you are: fall at once gentler
and more terrifying than that of night.
Qualm

“I will take sickness away from the midst of thee. There shall nothing cast their
young, nor be barren, in thy land: the number of thy days I will fulfil.”

– Exodus 23:26 (King James Bible)

I.

Speak now on the endless night ––

and on hark! The oncoming brighter
of the discontent of heart and birthing further pains
the blurring flight of her wing springs into view, for sight!
Sight is the cradle spot of woe-evil; see her stark eye shut,
rest your hopes over the blithe bosom of this endless night
and braid breadths of her hairs and tie with the remaining strands your hands,
then release her from the wedlock! The incoming fiercer
of the start of fire of the blood-star of the breathed out moon
is solace in the cramping womb of stifling air that tautly
coaxes open the crooning throat and may you speak!
Forever about the endless night, yet quietly
that you have been welcomed – by blindness if love is duly blind,
that your lids are dormant and that you dream
that pure purple aches seal them asleep, and violets caress you
that no longer you remember the coating of flesh that glistens out of the pit of
that gut,
that the light embracing you cannot rouse or shattering bring forth coughing
bouts, no more!
No more, no more but only that trusting you be lain still instead
and smaller than our hope is small and ill-bred yet better yet
– forever speak now! Forever let you be spoken over the vanity of dawn,
and hark! Forever let you be harked to for had I not heeded you waxen and
waned,
had I not held you burning dead with my cool hands freed
I would not crave so much a pallor overflown and the roaming of such strange
plains,
still not find – were you not done-dew now or gone-mist or scented rain,
not find the bare-bone beauty in the deader ends of every day,
still bear living and be still afraid:
of ewe-death and the hooves of winter,
that trample and trudge the mud-frost-barren fields until some grass gives,
of wasp-death and the stings of summer,
that torment and hover over damp hind and sap of sweat and salt after the blood-
rise,
of the killdeer-death and the falling of falls,
that past the fallen velvet perch on the bright red antlers to fall to shed, to
frighten child,
of dancing death in spring – hare-death of bite-birth and mean-teeth,
afraid of child or naturally afraid of preying life – but had you more to say on the
endless night!
And had you another day spared or a voice then my glad foolish heart would’ve
been ever afraid of the drought and the flood of every hour or year, but your
silence
bequeaths me no right to fear; no margin to meager hope,
yet how loved you were, how welcomed as here so promised elsewhere!
Endless night must give way to sun one day – and you will be awaiting there to
share the truth
that we hark to in the throb of that robin-heart, glimpse on the robin-wing and
rolling sighs
off the robin-chest, the robin singing through the night, the fairest robin and his
useless cries.

Speak me now, on the endless living,

and on hark! the robin-claw come forth from the gloom
that so dainty so frail yet seized of your eyes their blue, and resolved saw you
out;
you are dead and white now! ushered away, you dead of rib and of skull,
as ashen body caving in or as dark-gray dust now, and your mother’s breasts are
full,
your mother’s hands are dry now, your mother’s skirts are frayed and torn or lost
to stains now,
you are stony and stiff now, as wet wood or as limestone now, and your mother
falls ill now,
your mother’s lips are quivered now, your mother loses her grip now that you
grope
at the blackness and chill of soot frozen over,
that you are interwoven with the worm now! and eaten away, that no longer your
mother eats
and you are rot now, your mother storms
and whirls in our bed now, she recoils and resorts to her virgins now,
now that you are bone and your brother casts smooth the river stones onto the
cross,
and your sisters fade and frangible their wrists wear the sorrow-strings,
now that you are done for and dreamt, and they no longer play now,
then your father been a man of dread bore and of blade whet,
then a man of saddened faith and defeated now I am, unkind and unset
your father whom speaks now –– your father now wise that the nights are
endless,
and that we struggle much and sourly against the night-drop, the blizzard of
night,
the hurricane of night, the floods of night and blooms of night, we rush against
the stars
and fate is in the shoals, our hopes unraveling by the riverbed, our groans
crush the merriment of bee and chick and drooling dog – our groans in the shade
and large
as boulders, toiling for the quarry and the rising of a home – our groans pulling
down at
our roof, and we are ruined, fearless and ruined for grief has set and bled us,
and we silently bear the weight of our own words and we dull our hearts,
we dumb our souls – oh!

Be the dullest my heart, may my soul far dumber be!

A rounded stone cast at the cross,
diseased unto the doom of the endless night, her fog and her fingers curling,
her palms of clotted milk and the sloping of her curls set loose,
the harbinger of desire once now jagged grief and your name slipping away
will be the shining hope we put to rest on the bosom of your mother-night,
your true mother-dark your true mother-tide your mirror-mother-milkseed
and her unrelenting womb of earth and your heart is a root of hers now
from which the longest flowers grow, your heart is the flush of all
violet flowers, your soul glittered on the purple petals that speak on now on that
endless night
and to say that waking is for the weak, suffering for the strong,
that punishment for the wrong is the rearing of peace for the right.
Rest in peace, rest in peace, robin-bright!
Keep the glint of my heart, the reason-love of my soul, and your name
is the fame of good things and the whispered vows of day, pure and rid of blame.
How welcomed you were, how welcome and how endlessly loved, how endless!
May the night be so tender and spare day light or would this night-mother if she
could
then lovingly a warm cry of yours to send us!
Your eyes now ever-closed ever-safe ever-blue, your eyes, robin-young,
forever good and true – the cradle of evil is sight! and on praise the darker night,
my son.

II.

Lord,
I shout onto the endless night that horizons shall miss, must have missed
and tender my throat raw my breath and risen my fist!
You must not thrive in the hollows, must not dwell in the hurt,
Lord, you must not abandon, or gone untold is the toil and wounded left the soul!
I shout or kneel before the endless night, to shouting kneel
no more! Now the trials have been tried I commit not to my sins,
I holler shouts, Lord, no guilt is clear and we are none the better, none the
stronger,
nonetheless none the wiser, my heart is dull, my soul is dumb and darkened.
Lord, no more a man to bow before your beautiful son,
for none long enough had you me parted from mine! Hark what you made me
utter:
nevermore will ewe or ram be mistaken for their innocent lamb,
and the horns and the thorns never again to harm, the wing or wingtips not to
flutter,
hearken the heartache you had me sent! You to have silenced so a man
and clipped at a righteous woman’s feathers, trimmed her of her modest tresses,
Lord, for all their modesty and the zeal they had,
he is boorish now and broods besides her barren whimper and her balding head,
and wherever their child may lay,
there nevermore to leave, never again to breathe,
robbed of them and of all fire-air, robin of the stifled night now, robin scorched
and cooled now,
robin-dim, robin-dead, then Lord, he is set above you in my heart!
in my soul, in my praise or esteem, for you live no longer in me and surely not in
him,
and you are not welcome in my home.
You have me hollowed, emptied or cast out, punished ruthless and struck hard,
and taught me nothing, not even how! To bear every loss, taught him neither
whether on ends or at the start, and his leave has done us to better depart –
no longer, my Lord, aim your light at my heart.

III.

Mother-more,
I scream unto you bereft, pleading my partaking and bound to my part,
Mother night, I scream endless for your mellow veil,
your soothing shadow, to lead me through and blindly let me be led,
motherly hold me and have me held
in your bright and burning arms, for we wield our rage and yield to you, for we
mewl
weaned off you and your breast and crowding aimless during daylight,
as ants and artless bugs travailing we strive and blister every sunnying day, then
at last we are lone and losing breath into you, again, your endless night,
living pushed at the endless pitch-blue of what you bring, living tearing at the
endless star-white
of what you show, living wishing at the endless moon-light of what you do,
living pierced by the tusk of the fight you alone understand, but strangely alive!
And we are surrounded by the bullish boars, the growling wild tough pelted
boars,
the bears and the bucks, the roaring bears and dashing bucks, and still you have
us peerless,
the beasts astir and still you have us winsome, to last through the night,
war-mongered yet winning! In the quiet,
in complacency for still we pray and pray for the day when day will come and you
will grant us
death in the dying – in the dying fair, your pretty brand of dying!
No fear, no fright, and less slowness in the dimming,
and more comfort, more sense, more love-reason in the dark us winning.

Fetch us less slowness in the dimming, Mother!

because there is still dimming, plenty dimming and going from the dark to lower
darks,
to higher darks, to darker darks, to heavier sky and blacker stone, unto blindness

we go, unto blindness seeing little we go,

Mother-night,
make it so I do not dim so slowly, pleased be, endless-night, make it if you wish it
so.

IV.

I am still bereft and stirring is the sun, garishly aglow, orange on the blues,
red on the violets,
and purer against the whites, the clearing and freedom follows,
greener yet is the evergreen in every color,
and more graceful the grace of every face.

It is set also over the quarry,

alluvium from the alleviated bowels of the river joining
and the bluff nearby, the meanders coiling and rapidly the water
cascading, the barks afloat and riverbank blown by gasps of breeze, the
unending heat
licks at us and children splattering in the shoals, ringlets carrying flowers,
ringlet ripples
and my daughters a-laugh alighting their palms on the cooler stream,
sun over head, heavens over their shoulders, pregnancy of the meadows and my
children
crouched by the waterbed, their swollen hearts and smiling
for the once fallow river is swift and booming, sweet and blooming
with its day-river rhythm, a river of light, flowing onward! Singing of the
healthful time,
it’s light-water the balm not the cure, water of day pacing pure there, racing
their laughter
to the ends of the earth, the earth no longer that confines
and released are their souls, set upward.

O! Lord, my silence my lapse my faith, my lord that humbly guided me here,

my silence –- what had to dawn and drop, rise and descend, my silence
making room for the melodious sun, mellifluous sun, then now I see:
the voiceless life remaining in smaller things, in things that spasm not move,
in the greater and greatest of things, that twitch-less move so certain so whole,
the life breached and lit up that seeps and permeates everything, and the
hardness of my heart and how keen my soul! How fleeting and how clear.

O!, O! Night on end, you too! loud moon on purpled-black, learned bruise of
starry-dark,
we are gladdened too by this river you’ve nursed, by its undertow and justly
glad and hopesome under every star we are thrust
and all the rest is peace upon us:
a violet lulls the greener violets to dreaming,
a robin since early night brings in the morning sweet of song,
and death wins over life yet living is winning,
and though slow in the dimming and coming, our peace-death’s won.

V.

O! O!, O Day!, briefest day!

We faithful bid you come and see you go,
and belonging to us now and forever may
be the right to justly see you so.

Could we not be glad not to

glimpse or examine or note the smallness of every greatness,
that without the parts could we not revel in the gross wholeness?
– so long ago they told me the sun was
and be known in mids our blindness
coming brighter
stars and towers
the trampled the trodden the soft yielding to the severity
of the rigorous wind the rigorous
drought

spindle
splatter porphyria \\ purple
redness
brash

call it the blindness of blood;

Not to all the fortune of health be wholly told;

not to all the fortune of love for boon –
not to me – arrested in the gloomy cold
not to me whose fortune met me too soon.

bluff \ cliff
shoal
the meanders coil and the rapids cascading
the horned bark teeth biting
But do you suppose then you want to feel
alive or dead or simply real?
Oh dear.

What is it to it,
it
which evades itself
naturally unseeing
this impassivity and yet
that blinding feeling
the myriad forms of it
that are set aquiver by the light
transform in the light
delighting unfiltered
the then faltering sight and
yet the plight of men
reborn in the lightlessness
is
the plight of creature
of women and weeds
children and seeds
of the ash and the worm
song and storm
not
devoid of color
which by now isn’t light

ever

the soul faring is never

over
at once upon us
in its stead.

whatever rests below the heart