Author Topic: Many Musics, Tenth Series, Part 1  (Read 1433 times)

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Offline cenacle

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Many Musics, Tenth Series, Part 1
« on: May 02, 2017, 10:54:07 AM »
Continued from here:

Many Musics, Tenth Series

“But I’m tryin’, Ringo.
I’m tryin’ real hard to be the shepherd.”
—Quentin Tarantino, Pulp Fiction, 1994.

i. At Eventide

Quiet awhile. Nothing, everything changes.
 Every possible way. Somewhat. I’m listening.

Trucks blare smoky noise in the traffic
 on the bridge over this quiet muddy water.
Th-thump in their passing. Lullaby, reminder.
 I’m listening.

Sitting with my hand drawn book of rhythms
 on one side. You sit tapping & tooting
your instrument on the other. Me listening.

Strange fish glide by in the muddy water.
Toads seeming to wait, not waiting.

I come to this place, literally, figuratively,
 in long remembrance, I have nothing
to offer it. Tis refuge on my way,
 from one confusion to another.

Now daylight’s last hour, the day’s clouds
 & rain passed & gone. Traffic above clears
& passes less noisy. Th-thump. Pinkish-green
 & blue-umber fill the sky’s great window.

I read these words across the water
 to you, evening breeze carrying some,
slapping some away. You strike & strum
 your instrument, meet me in the swirl,
halfway. I’m still listening.

Now dark, stars, another world begins.
 I can’t see you over there anymore.
Are you there still? Will you keep playing
 anyway? I’m still listening. I’m listening.


ii. Glaring

Listening. Another day. Trucks blaring
 smoky noise on the bridge overhead.
Traffic a tangled fool between here & there.

My hand-made book of rhythms is thicker
 this time, stranger, cut deeper to its
uncertainties, what better remains often
 best listens, twice listens.

You’re over there, only this muddy water
 between us, playing your instrument,
furiously, quiet, no answers, but also
 no questions. I can’t bide either.

Strange fish in my book glide by.
Toads seeming to wait, not waiting.

Voices, many voices, they remain for me.
Bodies, soft bodies, I disturb, I remember.

Daylight’s last hour, clarity, shine.
Trucks go & go & gone. The sky’s blues
 & pinks & greens & gauzy glares grade
  down to near forever. (Listening?)

Try again. I read these words across
 the water, loud, you catch a few,
smile, enough to play to, play back
 to me. You nod, desire. You nod, want.
You play till I can’t listen & breathe both,
 so I stop.

Now darkness, better lights, another world
 waits, a moment, but little more.


iii. Release

The barks & growls & yelps on the bridge
 above crowd close & breathe heavy,
badly. We are half-hidden to these
 sad furies, below. The muddy waters
travel by. Marsh grasses tall enough to kiss
 the wind.

My book of rhythms are now wrapped
 in more leaves. I leave more of the dirt
& the dreams in, both. Listen finer for you,
 over there, it’s more remembering. It’s sad.

You played the words my fingers made,
 across the shore, those years, knee to knee,
you play them still, beyond the waters,
 beyond the years, across the muddy water,
your ironic perch.

Strange fish, on this globe forever.
Toads, seeming, wait out the worst.

These last hours, shine gives way to shine.
Something holds, & you play it, &
 you play it, & I try to sing.

These words touch your fingertips,
 tangle in your chords, land with a sigh.
You laugh. You’re not done playing me.

Now darkness, more laughing,
 fingers long enough to hold a heart
  by the half-mile.


iv. Evening Tide

In the dream, they built a bridge out,
 far out into the ocean, remains incomplete,
like half-opening fist.

I hold my hand-made book of mended bark
 & dried fruit skins. I am nude & sad
& considering that bridge.

Strange fish at its far point, diving &
 playing where it ends, colors uncertain,
too dazzling by lights kissing heavy
 the far horizon.

Before dark comes, I climb to its walkway,
 feel its long years, feel it sway,
 feel it steady, begin to walk.

I read from my book, shakily,
 to your spectre, your many spectres,
to every spectre alive & remembering.

Now darkness, what this dream, this bridge
 is holding me better than I am. I keep reading
in the growls & snaps of my text, reading
 & walking. Keep singing & walking.


v. Isle of Mind

On this isle of mind, seas joining
 mine to yours, but no bridge,
we’ve forgot the bridge.

These pages I write to near you,
 to name you, to touch you,
to return you, to return you.

I listen. Twice listen. Are you playing
 for me as well? Do you remember
the bridge? Could you teach me new?
 What’s possible by starlight? Could you
remind me?

Remind me the bridge, from isle to isle,
 the how of touch, the why of breath,
the yes of blood & beat, how yes common
 among all, remember, we too are one,
we too are one.

I say these words as I imagine
 your ear, as I imagine your hand,
as I imagine your smile, your raised
 instrument, struck & strummed in reply.


vi. Eventide (ii)

Will myself deeper part of world’s song,
 every page my throat, every page
my croon & cry. I will you near me
 again, & breathe, relax. And away.

I am this book that shifts with your
 heart, croons & cries, beats & breaths,
melodies of waves & daylight bowing.

Dream me a fish to nuzzle you,
 to feed you, to keep your drown.
Dream me an answer by which your
 absence subsides.
Dream me your peculiar shaped hands,
 upon your instrument, near to grasp again.

I listen. Twice listen. OK. The darkness
 is gentle, after all, a waiting, a waiting,
many many hard sighs. I hold you,
 & you hold me, we lose our names &
knowns in this embrace. You hold me,
 whoever you are, whoever I am,
& you say. Simple. Simple. Let be.

« Last Edit: December 06, 2018, 12:02:03 PM by cenacle »

Offline cenacle

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Re: Many Musics, Tenth Series, Part 1
« Reply #1 on: May 03, 2017, 09:04:01 AM »

*** Many Musics, X, i *** At Eventide *** This sequence is kind of a dream sequence of theme and variation . . . it is a remembrance of a place I used to go a long time ago, to hide, think, write, be among nature, and it is also a portrait of a dear friend who has passed on . . . but it is these things in the service of the Tangled Gate mythology, and the character being portrayed, and his journey forward . . .

*** Many Musics, X, ii *** Glaring *** The sequence begins to warp a little, vary a little, intensify . . .

*** Many Musics, X, iii *** Release *** Becoming more dreamlike, more memory wrapped around the mind, consuming . . .

*** Many Musics, X, iv *** Evening Tide *** Dream within dream, shore diminishing, all is feeling, memory, sadness . . .

*** Many Musics, X, v *** Isle of Mind *** We too are one. we too are one wetooareonewetooareone.

*** Many Musics, X, vi *** Eventide (ii) *** Dream me an answer by which your absence subsides.
« Last Edit: May 03, 2017, 09:14:01 AM by cenacle »