AEAEA
Recurring Dream Island

February 2003
 
 

4 February 2003
 

The Wetness
 

We are the will a ghastly shining
drove unreal into sore distress
that should have been sea-green leaves and twining
vines.  It deformed us, dripping less
desire than a fatal form of poison.
Leak me away from where I’ve been
laid thus distrait.  Its chorus-voices,
chiming me deeply down a green-
black vale of all hallows interspersing
prayers with a rain of metal tears,
follow me chanting clatter-curses.
Rain on my face—a wetness hears
me whisper a name, and brightly beckons.
Woe is the curse itself, undone.
Shine with a grey light’s nightmare echoes;
we will have watched that spirit run
spiralling salt a mystic hallway
turns to a sea a pearl Moon lies
lightly upon.  All wide, a wall-less
world underwater lifts and skies
and whispers in—aye, return, I’m willing—
merriment.  Now we flow and fade,
but no one divides us.  Learn the lilt of
where we have been—and recascade.
 

    ***
 

8 February 2003
 

The Midnight Wood
 

clairvoyance
 

Come home to us first.  Unfold, unfold most
cold lunar secret.  Wax more mild.
Leak little treelet, magic older
far than the me that meets the child
of underworld daylight under circle-
series of inset dreams.  Come fast,
come haste to unfold our work, come perfect
infantile grace—then meet the past
that follows us both, its ghost a haunting
presence.  Come hear its inverse woe,
then—lilt to repeat it.  Speak it, chant its
secret a slip of tree-shoot snow
holds lightly in glowing layers.  Little
child, do pronounce the name graved there.
Lo—in that midnight leaf, a flitting-
spirited sound invokes a pair
of eyes who now know by mirrored meeting
stares that the words are understood.
Shiver in green new growth.  A leaking
love permeates this midnight wood.
 

***
 

9 February 2003
 

I am seeking much, much clearer vision.
 

The Sea-Lens
 

The clear night sea where sad clouds keep forming—
sweep them far, far away—that face
holds the grave deep portents I seek.  A swarm of
angels borne from a baleful place
I can almost touch—they are calling, shining
out from black-mantled rainswept ghosts
who are cold and lovesick.  Their lonely eyes so
mirror mine—or they would; the hosts
of harrowed children they were return in
spitfire flashes of brittle light.
Somewhere back of their ire a yearning
peace reflects me toward the height
of one most towering wave:  Black leather
night wings hovering there, sweep me
away.  The shadow I cast—foul weather
clouding over the sea-lens we
stared into, longing to find each other—
breathe it over with sweet green air.
Let song besiege us, song only.  Lover
demon-angel, my friend most fair
of face and temper, this finds me willing.
Show me ocean-deep visions.  Hold
my out-held spirit’s frail hand.  Keep stillness,
breathless breathing, calm space.  All told
I need the stories to be that swirl and
eddy round the sea-sky’s high pole.
Lift me up to it.  There the pearl of
the Moon between us completes the soul
of pure song where we, flaring sight of strangeness
caught alight by the meeting glance
we have now achieved, must endure the change of
being vision begins in trance.
 

***
 

12 February 2003
 

Till Then
 

Stillness, come over me.  Lover who whispers, be—
wholly my own at the dark of the day,
more openly so as the Moon enters mystery-
waters by twilight and blazes there, play
gladly round amid shadows.  Release past delusion.
Come beckon me down—I am already nigh
the black sight of the heart-cave that pierces—with coolness
and quiet—the pain that determines your sigh—
that it meet mine and tenderly mingle with ages’
resolve to be known:  utter beauty’s clear view
given bright human eyes.  With it, singing engages
a new sense of purpose inside the old ‘you’
as it strains toward pale, half-articulate letters
engraved in the walls of a cave whose pulse fails—
for an instant—then gathers fresh strength to beget the
next evidence.  Where is the woman who wails
in the arms of her high demon-angel forever?
Peace of my sigh, find my heart beating fast.
Openly know me, the ghost of a lover
who’ll haunt death itself till it meets you at last.
 

***
 

13 February 2003
 

Echo-Location
 

The petals are leather.  Black bats’ wings enfold me.
Blossom of darkness, I rose to this
round shining aloneness entirely beholden
to no one—to you, rich in vatic bliss
glowing outwardly fast as I loosened by layers,
mystery-riddled, half sick with awe.
Deal me more fatal bewilderment—rays like
needle-fine moonbeams—and strike the raw
lens waiting to sicken and heal, clear crystal
rose-water wept by a thorn’s dew-glance
down pulsating wet live leather.  You listen
acutely; I lean will-steeled and dance
a whirlwind words strive to follow weakly.
Petal open their secret sighs
in jet-black night-horse sweat.  A leaking
light—a love-murmur—our meeting eyes—
and wonder softly bewept to the every-
where we are no one not alone—
not now—being fleshless love is severed—
serving love’s vision echo-tone.
 

I just happened upon Google's translation service.
The following is a machine translation of the same poem into Spanish :)
 

el 13 de febrero de 2003
 

Eco-Localizacio'n
 

Los pétalos son cuero. Enfold de las alas de los palos negros yo.
Flor de la oscuridad, me levanté a esto
el aloneness brillante redondo beholden enteramente
a nadie -- a usted, rico en dicha vatic
brillando intensamente exterior rápidamente como aflojé capas,
misterio-acribillado, a medias enfermo con temor.
Repártame un bewilderment más fatal -- rayos como
los moonbeams aguja-finos -- y pulsan el crudo
lente que espera para ponerse enfermo y para curar, cristal claro
el levantar-agua lloró por una espina roci'o-echa un vistazo
cuero vivo mojado abajo que pulsa. Usted escucha
agudo; Me inclino -steeled y bailo
un torbellino redacta se esfuerza seguir débil.
El pétalo abre sus suspiros secretos
en sudor negro como el azabache del noche-caballo. El escaparse
luz -- un amor-murmur -- nuestros ojos de la reunión --
y de la maravilla bewept suavemente al cada
donde estamos nadie no solos --
no ahora -- se separa el ser amor fleshless --
eco-tono de la visión del amor de la porción.
 

***
 

14 February 2003
 

Red words for a heart-bleeding holiday.
Happy St. Valentine's Day.
 

Body of Song
 

A bled red drop out of weeping nowhere—
tell me, song-lover, where are we?
Let me tender a blessing slowly
wetting itself like leaves a tree
heaped eye-level high with snow is keeping
faintly alive while moonlight hums
a shivering wave of heat that seeps in
music-wise.  Here it comes and comes
when all is most hopeless:  Nay, that moment
passed long ago—protracted fate.
Something that lingers needs us.  Home and
spirit, your fever-dreams relate
strange blood-written leaves that pulse, then vanish.
I have a tear of blood to cry
myself—yet a whole dry skin uncanny
blessings inscribe.  Here you say I….
 

***
 

15 February 2003
 

Read between, read between, read between!
 

Behind My Back
 

If I lay my hand on your human nerve,
you will wake up shocked but smiling.  Aye,
my touch will lend the love you deserve—
then take it back with a wounded sigh
to offer over again its fine
divinatory impression.  Who
devised this reflexive fate-design?
Who made me want to share with you
its mystery?  Who now reads my voice?
Whose vision glows therein?  I sing
from under the seal that leaves no choice;
love is the lore of everything
and nothing at once, and I its priest
and celebrant.  Sigh you home, say I.
Call me your only angel-beast.
Thus comes the moan behind the ‘my.’
 

***
 

16 February 2003
 

It was only a hand on the absence of skin, but my skin shivered and wept.
 

A Sweet By-and-By
 

The silken shining, the shaken true-love
knot that still holds—oh, bind me fast
to the merest sigh with the light our lunar
orb showers down.  Distill the last
wee drop of sweet timelessness from kisses
rain blows over and into.  Why
we seek no shelter—complete my wishful
half of desire’s deep midnight sky
while storm-clouds gather and slowly settle,
peaceful in lightning shafts that pierce
us both with each stroke—let wildness wet as
an ocean, rising and growing fierce
in tender beauty that lingers—painful
in deep intensity only—tell.
Shine as my heart beholds you.  Wane in
the outer world if you must, but spell
one lovesick lyrical future fervor
here, well cast to be realized
as our clear-sense organs touch and turn to
music.  Skin of the madly prized
note-perfect bearer of endless secret
knowledge, let me behold much more.
Learn through infinite river-leaking
rain my own lyric-ocean lore
and then re-release it mingled—greatly
tempered and strengthened—with your calm
demeanor and grace, our Moon’s unwaning
silk laid across a human palm
held on either side of a world wide-open.
Which of ours?  All our worlds sing, Aye.
Tethered thus to the deepest knowing,
we shall meet a sweet by-and-by.
 

***
 

17 February 2003
 

Wards of the Moon
 

Your wonder shoulders a willing burden.
I watch patiently, sighing low.
Moons disclose an array, a perfect
multiplicity; bend in slow
reflection; then curve round you-wards, single
lastingly, one in seamless song.
Silent breath, you arrive and linger.
 Waters shiver.  Moon-mirror strong
desire finds a gentle voice as spirits—
ours, sweeping low and high—enjoin
our eyes in the water-glass to hear us
nearing the place—the heaven-loin,
the limit of all division’s lunar
traces, its glowing drop of pearl
come into completest order.  You are
borne on a seeking me-wards whirl,
the muse of its curved and mystic measures’
tenderness.  Run together, each
apparently waxing-waning weather-
dream—my relentless longing’s reach
encompasses all your phases, just as
you lift the brightest burden—mine—
with deeply-sung ease.  The vatic lust of
which we are breathed—the rich design
the Moon everlasting back of all its
time-weakened evanescent rounds
conspires with itself to breed to call its
own in our secret minds—resounds
between us in silence—till we break its
motionless surface.  Lean and sigh
much closer.  As night-breath loving aching
flesh, let us thus requited lie.
 

***
 

18 February 2003
 

The Calling We Share
 

Will the ones who would twine their fingers,
Find the spirit behind the eyes
peering down from the heights and bring it
forth by stages like clear night skies
a tempered blaze penetrates with whispers.
Sing me—shyness besets me here—
sing me lyric desire that listens,
fraught with fever that tastes of fear
and tinges salt to its lips’-edge.  Streaming
love long-sought, bring the piqued face
of the midnight-blossoming Moon to gleam in
softest splendor throughout this place
where dark leaves rustle, inscribed and dripping
pages where eyes may read the deep,
not fearful—nay, melancholy—slips of
still dream-lickerish tongue-tip sleep
that shudders heavily elsewhere, far yet
brilliantly near by moonbeam’s-reach.
Turn your will to the coming ardor,
song its sweet, nigh-omniscient speech
and piercing silver its black-sky secret
script.  What the leaves now know, we two
have been invited to learn by leaking
love in the full Moon’s searching view.
 

***
 

19 February 2003
 

The Circular Shore
 

Between white feathers, between laid snow-white
pages, between far sea-salt strands,
the face I seek—the lost, pale and lonely
dream-sick sailor’s—and now his hands,
held wide to show the live mist contained in
luminescent pearl shell-halves just
a moment ago—and now the changing
lights that burn where my sight was thrust
unwilling out and away from scarce the
moment before—these signs invite
very close inspection.  The sailor’s hair is
dripping wet, but a bird in flight
conveys him over the waves so swiftly….
Now the pages fall to, but I
have seen.  By the mist that breathes us, lifted
hairs on my neck, and blazing sky
that ought to be midnight-black, a silence
breeds many magics.  Two that strayed
away from their common path, beguiled by
shadows their spells have long since laid
in flurries of snow-white words, love letters
floating on feather-wafted air,
incanted dream-sails—the song-begetters
we have become inspire the fair
design behind all these shifting portents,
bringing its final form to view
where we—hand-in-hand on one sea-bordered
isle—sing the everlasting hue
that plays endless pearl-shell luminescent
secrets through each upglancing face….
 Here we exchange words:  By the full Moon’s blessing,
we will not be made to leave this place.
 

***
 

20 February 2003
 

The Rescue-Craft
 

The silken light—the suffused dark eyes,
the sea behind them—the hands held out,
unempty—the rushing waves, the wise
though weary sailor—I move about,
and all these suffer a change right gladly.
Who but you—and the beast you were
beneath the spray and a lulled Moon’s sadly
eerie magic—could still confer
transformation wet as a breath of silver
over an ocean grave?  And who—
find me, fingers and eyes, and fill the
mists of my mind with that strange dew—
could celebrate such uncanny blessings
down to the deepest sea’s last drop
while leaving them free to heave in restless
ecstasy like a high tree-top
that stretches its way beyond a cliff’s
diminished, still fraying edge, so drawn
toward the immensely sighing lift
and sway of the waves’ steep water-lawn
it leans, subtle green-lights trading erstwhile
form-bound designs by glances where
the sea—and the beastly angel word-lore
loves till a thousand times the rare
confusion of searching eyes is met and
entered, and—oh, that sailor’s cry….
These are the signs that gesture depths of
eloquence we can only try
by all our most secret means and when they
prove their transforming powers yield
our own to their sway and range.  I entered
death’s deepest lunar-ocean field
to find you, as you in turn swam searching
circles for me.  Green tree, lie down;
steep wave, sweep her over.  Changing pearl on
high, cast a single magic crown
of light to contain them both, one holy
 source beyond sea and land.  Subside
in form, but exceed in grace—for only
dreams of the mortal bourne have died.
 

***
 

22 February 2003
 

Pearl Greymare’s Love Croon
 

I want the tying you down—black laces,
twisted cords, ruby heart-spun ropes
still pounding—to feel so final, lakes of
liquid fire will attain long slopes
of linen pale as dead skin where shining
crescent imprints in rows and rounds
will comprise the signature I am pining
deathsick for on deserted grounds
while I wait bound, all my feet securely
tethered.  Turning my face each way—
working into the courage surely
mine where death’s anti-demons bay
with mad desire at the light their mistress
pearl greymare sheds to benefit
their aspirations—knowing this is
woe your throat cannot ever quit
till all its wild roiling vestige-spirits
voice themselves to the Moon in full
and you stand empty—I wait to hear it,
wiser under the coils I pull
a little looser with each delinquent
word you seize and cast high, set free
from baleful toils.  It behooves the blinkered
nightmare-turn of the inverse key
that locked this heart-house in cobwire-laces—
spun of lust that ran bloody-black
till someone marked the uncanny place that
gushed with a touch that tied it back
and I stepped forward, all shining petals
streaming wet with a dew the Moon
sang round me, smiling—to drench you wet as
I with the bloody-luscious croon
that soothes all demons, transforming lust and
madness into abiding….  Cease
your dreaming.  This is my song’s real thrust:  When
midnight comes may you find no peace,
being bound by words that will leave you breathless,
heart-held hand in my own, my lips
aligned with those of the love whose death is
vatic timelessness:  Here it drips.
 

***
 

23 February 2003
 

Our Midnight Sheet
 

We woke to dreams of a roundly heightened
state and frequency.  There we sang
in pouring showers and sheets of tightly
twisted strands laid aloft to hang
suspended, nigh horizontal, caught by
winds from everywhere at one time.
When the rain came, a scatter-shot and
then steady presence, a sighing chime
rang swiftly sweet to our canted hearing
with every meeting of pairs of drops
till—I am fragile with countless tears, a
flood of longing that never stops,
a living sheet it has written over
ten thousand times, and still here we are,
every nowhere that shakes and shows us
meanings riddled with dreams and far
sweet chiming voices so small and yet so
pain-persistent, a constant state
of desirous rain still growing wetter.
Woe is me when the wail is great
of all their frequencies met and mingled—
fierce to make their strange song be heard,
shifted into our mode of singing,
set with many a mortal word
that forms close parallel shades of meaning-
need to theirs, and then dreamt awake
while we converse.  Love, the source of magic,
pours like rain till a linen lake
of pale mysterious depths lies sighing
nakedly under its own eyes’ gaze.
We, the hearers who’ve caught its crying,
feel its secrets become a blaze
of burning floodwater-rain with higher
hearing powers.  When our eyes meet,
let us circle round to its first, most shining
sigh and—make that our midnight sheet.
 

***
 

26 February 2003
 

All Grown Strong
 

You own strange powers of being:  Help me
behold them clearly myself.  You see
a mist that wreathes round an arbor, telling
glints and whispers of mystery
abloom throughout the long spiral tendril
I have grown so entranced by; bind
it now both looser and tighter.  Gentle
visionary, dissolve the blind
desire that frightens me only.  Show me
more than everything else—the All
that hesitates at its nightmare’s holy
threshold, hearing her footsteps’ call—
soft, relentlessly treading echo-
heartbeats forming a hollow chord
that hurts it sweetly.  You worry back and
forth while the yet to be restored
dimension eyes burrow into, chasing
pale green glances where deep leaves sway,
awaits us:  the knowing, looming place of
ravished sadness that turns to day-
long moonlight, plying a spiral pattern
footsteps work in the round.  The pull
of binding magic—I lean, a tatter
rewreathed by feet—and a peace, a lull
of eyes peering into the sagest silence—
and then a world of live flameswept leaves.
Find me what is desired so wildly.
Show me how that desire conceives
the me behind its own eyes and sings it
wreathwise into a flare of song.
Child, the vision it won’t cease bringing
shows me now—you are All grown strong.
 

***
 

27 February 2003
 

Cloud-Formation
 

Clouds are forming.  A cold wind’s keening
scours my nerves with a wordless pain—
but then the ghost of it speaks.  Its meaning
shudders me like the touch of rain
on the diaphragm of the ocean.  Fever-
wavers lurk round the deep green close
of the aura cast by my skin.  The seizing
hands—the open and shut of those
translucent fingers that reach to melt me
through—and the eyes that see behind
my haunted feeling—they mean the swell of
the Moon-drenched ocean that calls to mind—

The face that should have appeared and for a
moment did leaves the lapsing glow
of its sad regard in the green-dark core of
my silence, dying cloud-overflow.