435 lines
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435 lines
14 KiB
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<title>Zk | Miscellany</title>
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<h1>Zk | Miscellany</h1>
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<article class="content">
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<p><span class="tag">writing</span> <span class="tag">poetry</span></p>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Civilized Beasts 2016 Edition</em></q><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">The dogs assure me:
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There are volumes of meaning —
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Life and death —
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And time;
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Past, present, future —
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In the scent of a rotting fish left after the flood,
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Or a trace of scat,
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Or the coyote, long passed,
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But not everyone reads poetry.
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I’m not so lucky, all told:
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The rich scent of meaning —
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Heady, intoxicating —
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Rises only from words
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And the way you rest your hands on the table.</div>
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<hr />
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">The eighteenth whisker on the left is brown.
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I know this after countless nights awake
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beside you, watching every quiet breath.
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You puff your whiskers out on every yawn.
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On longer work-filled days, your whiskers wilt,
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exhaustion softening your features, sleep
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exerting subtle gravities to lead
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you to oneiric seas and dreamlike sands.
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I know this after countless nights awake.
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I know, I know, it's strange to watch you sleep,
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but when I can't, to know that someone can...
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at least it somehow lets me rest in turn.
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When I lay beside your sleeping form
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I know there's rest to still be had for me.</div>
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<hr />
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<h2 id="liminality">Liminality</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">A year starts not on January first.
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The days may hunder but the seasons speak
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of time's long march, of fast time, slow time. Thirst
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for "start" and "end" neglects the limen sleek.
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So, why do some unsubtle sciences
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forget about the in-betweens? Those pure
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uncolored dreams made mere contrivances;
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"between the years" now simply: "year, then year".
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These rough mechanics, held unseen, can spoil
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the beauty of our silent spaces, take
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from us the liminality, embroil
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our lives in cold and tired minutiae.
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Come sit with me, come stay with me inside
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this place between where strange new loves abide</div>
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<p>"So, what does it mean?"</p>
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<p>She shrugged and sipped her tea. They sat together in silence for a while.</p>
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<p>"There's something about the liminal that terrifies me."</p>
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<p style="text-align: right">"Me too," she said...</p>
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<hr />
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<h2 id="growth">Growth</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q><q class="comment">In <em>ally</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">Used to be you and I daily would walk
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through the fields out back of the house and talk
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for hours, spilling words and emotions.
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These walks were our daily devotions
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to each other over the years.
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The fields, dotted with ponds, were our space.
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We tramped those trails strung like lace
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along shores and through tall grass,
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murmuring now like winds, chattering now like brass
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in some changeful duet.
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You'd tell me about the geese in the sky,
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would watch me stand still and not ask why
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the birds scared me to pieces,
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even as we dodged around their feces
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littering the trails.
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You'd put up with my fickle interests,
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running with me, or stopping to see what arrests
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my attention. You'd follow all of my changes
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and change along with me through all the ranges
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of our shared experience.
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You'd tell me of your meditation,
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I'd talk of my fears of stagnation.
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You'd always smile so kindly to me,
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and I'd always feel so free
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in our companionship.
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And over time, those walks got slower,
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shorter, less frequent, or over
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far too soon, though no less meaningful
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as we spent our time together in cheerful
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conversation or kind quiet.
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We each seemed to be going our separate ways,
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with me branching out, exploring different lays
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of different lands, and you turning inwards,
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exploring lines of thought you never put in words,
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at least not that you told me.
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And then one day, we once more went out walking
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and though it took a while, you got to talking.
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You told me of how you sat, quiet and alone,
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waiting for the time you might turn to stone
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and be completely still at last.
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You told me how as you sat, the room lengthened,
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curved around, turned on you --- strengthened,
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it seemed, by your very presence ---
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and amid all of that gathered pleasance,
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bit you in half.
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You told me how, as part of you died
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in that moment, the rest of you spied,
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it seemed, on this very ending.
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You told me you thought that this rending
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was the end of something big.
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I listened in silence. What could I say?
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The things you were telling me, walking that day
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were strangely shaped and didn't make sense.
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Or if they did, they did so around corners as pretense,
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perhaps, subtext, allusion, metaphor.
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You were right, though, I could hear it in your voice.
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There was finality, there, which spoke of a choice
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already made. Endings were writ on your face,
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your hands, and your steps --- your very pace
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spoke of completion.
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I replied to that sense rather than your words.
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"While you look up to the geese and see only birds,
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I see omens and my doom spelled in vees.
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You speak of rooms and cleaving, but please,
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tell me, are you leaving?"
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We'd long since stopped, there by the pond,
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and your smile was, yes, sad, but still fond
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as you settled down wordlessly to your knees,
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took a slow breath, looked out to the trees,
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and closed your eyes.
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Beginnings are such delicate times
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and I very nearly missed it, no chimes
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to announce the hour of your leaving.
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As it was, there was no time for believing
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or not in the next moments.
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Your fingers crawled beneath the soil
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and sprouted roots, flesh starting to roil.
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Coarse bark spiraled up your wrists and arms,
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Spelling subtle incantations and charms
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to the chaos of growth.
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You bowed your head and from your crown
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sprouted a tender shoot covered in fine down,
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soon followed by crenelated leaves and fine stems.
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The pace was fast, implacable, and leaves like gems
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soon arched skyward.
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You sprouted and grew, taking root
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in one smooth motion, fixed and mute.
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Your clothing fell away, rotting in fast-time.
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Naked now, you sat still, committing one last crime
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of indecency.
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Your face, your face! In your face was such peace
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as I'd never seen, even as you gave up this lease
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on life, echoed also in my heart of hearts.
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I did not cry out, nor even speak, witnessing such arts
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as your final display showed.
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Soon, you were consumed, transformed as a whole.
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Your head a crown of leaves, your heart a bole
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bored in rough bark and sturdy wood,
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your fingers, knees, and toes stood
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as thirsty roots.
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I stood a while by the tree that was you,
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then sat at your roots and thought of all I knew
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about time, transformation, death and change.
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I thought about you, your life, your emotional range,
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your gentle apotheosis.
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Then I walked home, quiet and numb.
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No, not numb, per se, but perhaps dumb.
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Dumb of words, dumb of emotions. Quiet.
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I expected turmoil, some internal riot,
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I got nullity.
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Who, after all, if I cried out,
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would hear my wordless shout
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among the still trees and rustling leaves?
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Who hears? Who cares? Who perceives
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this non-grief?
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You, my friend, are still there.
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I walk the fields every day, passing where
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you changed into something new.
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I marvel at you, at how you grew
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into something wholly different.
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Used to be you and I daily would walk
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through the fields out back of the house and talk.
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Now, it's just me, alone, quiet, thinking
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of you by the shore, forever drinking
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of sweet water.</div>
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<hr />
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">I keep hoping that, one day,
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I'll spring palladial from the bole of a tree.
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Fully formed, sexless,
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Conceived without desire or intent.
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My body will be virginal and clean,
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My mind fresh, my soul at ease.
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The tree, behind me, will stand crooked,
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Bole seeping until time and air dry sap.
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I will be a flat expanse of green, made up of new cells.
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Everything will work together, a smoothly running machine.
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I keep hoping to, one day,
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Function with unity, unflagging.
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Organized and purposeful,
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Intent only on fulfillment.
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My vision will be clear and unclouded,
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My will affirming, strong, and sure.
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And when I fall, I will remain whole,
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Confident that I lived well and unapologetic.</div>
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<hr />
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">Every time I fall,
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The ground tells me I'm in love.
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"'Cause love is
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All low," it says.
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"And loves is
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Places."
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And I always argue,
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That love is all people.
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That love is dogs,
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And cats.
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And love is
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Emotions.
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But every time I fall,
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The ground tells me I'm in love.
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That gravity is
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Some awkward embrace,
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And <a href="love.html">love</a> is
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Permanence.
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And I always argue,
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That love is temporary.
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That that's
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The beauty,
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And permanence
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Misses the point.
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And every time I fall,
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The ground tells me I'm in love.
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And every single time,
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I keep coming back.</div>
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<hr />
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Eigengrau</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">There's some duality between sources of meaning,
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Between the types of stories we use to back identity.
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It's not quite good & bad or light & dark,
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Though I'm not yet sure just how to define it.
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Dad used to punish the dogs
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by locking then in the basement.
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If he was really mad,
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he'd toss then down there by the scruff.
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Mom moved me & her dogs to a new house —
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moved us three days early during the divorce.
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Her dog punched my ex stepdad in the crotch the night before,
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the nut-shot to end all nut-shots, & our time there.
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Few things make me feel as deeply about life as parenthood,
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even if it's just me caring for my dogs.
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Some reminders of that are intense enough to be raw, painful,
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salt in the wounds of mortality, maybe, or the ache of maternal love.
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The meaning behind the story of me & my dogs
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comes with a story of its own, or maybe several.
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It's bound up in stories to come,
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& these stories nest infinitely deep.
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Remembering that & shaping that,
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It's a part of making the meaning in my life.
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This isn't better against worse,
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it's not mom against dad.
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It's not a dichotomy at all, really,
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now that I think about it.
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It's something subtler, comfortably complex, a topic of its own.
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I guess it's just meaning & self.</div>
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<hr />
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<h2 id="ode-to-the-end-of-death">Ode to the end of death</h2>
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<p><q class="comment">In <em>Qoheleth</em></q></p>
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<div class="verse">I am at a loss for images in this end of days:
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I have sight but cannot see.
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I build my castle out of words;
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I cannot stop myself from speaking.
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I still have will and goals to reach for,
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I still have wants and needs.
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If I dream, is that not so?
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If I dream, am I no longer myself?
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If I dream, am I still buried beneath words?
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And I still dream even while awake.
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Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen
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for memory ends at the teeth of death.
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The living know that they will die,
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but the dead know nothing.
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Hold my name beneath your tongue and know:
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when you die, thus dies the memory of me.
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To deny the end is to deny all beginnings,
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and to deny beginnings is to become immortal,
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and to become immortal is to repeat the past,
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which cannot itself, in the end, be denied.
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Oh, but to whom do I speak these words?
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To whom do I plead my case?
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From whence do I call out?
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What right have I?
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No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers,
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No unknowable spaces echo my words.
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Before whom do I kneel, contrite?
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Behind whom do I await my judgment?
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Beside whom do I face death?
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And why wait I for an answer?
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Among those who create are those who forge:
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They move from creation to creation.
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And those who remain are those who hone,
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Perfecting a single art to a cruel point.
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To forge is to end, and to own beginnings.
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To hone is to trade ends for perpetual starts.
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In this end of days, I must begin anew.
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In this end of days, I seek an end.
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In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings
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that I may find the middle path.
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Time is a finger pointing at itself
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that it might give the world orders.
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The world is an audience before a stage
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where it watches the slow hours progress.
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And we are the motes in the stage-lights,
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Beholden to the heat of the lamps.
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If I walk backward, time moves forward.
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If I walk forward, time rushes on.
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If I stand still, the world moves around me,
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and the only constant is change.
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Memory is a mirror of hammered silver:
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a weapon against the waking world.
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Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory:
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a clarifying agent that reflects the sun.
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The waking world fogs the view,
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and time makes prey of remembering.
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I remember sands beneath my feet.
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I remember the rattle of dry grass.
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I remember the names of all things,
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and forget them only when I wake.
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If I am to bathe in dreams,
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then I must be willing to submerge myself.
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If I am to submerge myself in memory,
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then I must be true to myself.
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If I am to always be true to myself,
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then I must in all ways be earnest.
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I must keep no veil between me and my words.
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I must set no stones between me and my actions.
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I must show no hesitation when speaking my name,
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for that is my only possession.
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The only time I know my true name is when I dream.
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The only time I dream is when need an answer.
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Why ask questions, here at the end of all things?
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Why ask questions when the answers will not help?
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To know one's true name is to know god.
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To know god is to answer unasked questions.
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Do I know god after the end of all things?
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Do I know god when I do not remember myself?
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Do I know god when I dream?
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May then my name die with me.
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That which lives is forever praiseworthy,
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for they, knowing not, provide life in death.
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Dear the wheat and rye under the stars:
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serene; sustained and sustaining.
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Dear, also, the tree that was felled
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which offers heat and warmth in fire.
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What praise we give we give by consuming,
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what gifts we give we give in death,
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what lives we lead we lead in memory,
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and the end of memory lies beneath the roots.
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May one day death itself not die?
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Should we rejoice in the end of endings?
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What is the correct thing to hope for?
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I do not know, I do not know.
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To pray for the end of endings
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is to pray for the end of memory.
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Should we forget the lives we lead?
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Should we forget the names of the dead?
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Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree?
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Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.</div>
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</article>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-04-24</p>
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