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Water Song
and whose poem colours the fish…as you let your confessions crumble upon the river…the stone falls from your soul…sinks somewhere…somewhere the wind churns up the words of the saint….rebel saint…the wind wounds the sleeping tiger in your fingers…the wind is the shade of old city streets…
the city shakes…in the river's pulse…and I know how the river looks at night…when all the bullets have mixed in bones…and all the bones have mixed in the boatman's breath…and the women in the auto remember death…and that night of séance…when the dead man let the romance leak out of his soiled hair…his purple love…for when he was dying he was afraid of insects but yet…he dreamed of the dark child who seemed to be watching him by the corner of the street…the dark child who held wild leaves between his lips…and the tanpura crept in like the tiger…or the wind flower…
At times, the darkness speaks…speaks of that thin figure that walked up and down the corridor…looking at pain…painted on the floor in the colour of a kiss…she wept at the river…time slides in her skull…her story was only heard by the rebel saint…a story clings to the bullet in her hair and his soul…
In the old silent streets, you sit on the steps of a home and let your confessions mix with the wind…and will the darkness find its priest…who sings the water song
girl of the rivers
whirl in the blue air
talk to the lovers
walk the tiger's lair
the girl walks upon the tides, and hears the voice of the fish and the voice of the stones…and the voice in the bones swallows time…the tanpura starts again…like wine and the wind…
And I know just how the river looks at night.
4 comments:
rebel saint... hmm... i like it. as cliched as it seems.
i'm going to use it somewhere.
where are you? werent we supposed to meet?
it looks like this? it sounded better. if it was really this.
i'm blogrolling you. (hah. like it makes any difference.)
yes Diviani, the stream-of-consciousness technique used in this poem doesn't fall gently on the reader's mind...requires audience agility to keep up with the changing images...therefore I guess it works better with my guitar-harmonica-reading-audience- eyes-closed method!
like an epilogou to some thoght left unfinished...repatriated on a nite of lonesome birds...but yes! the birds did crow when i left my 'confessions to the wind'!
poetry is often a portrait of a body without a shape. 'stream of consiousness' was affective..
felicitations!
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