man steps over the couch, into the autumn wind, he is naked yet covered by his own nature…
Image by: Albin Brunovsky
Title by: Marcel Mariën
In this square is the air that tears away all flesh all bone, eats the rock, mars the polished stone, removes the fossil for the comfort of its lenin satin wave, a breeze blows through the curtains and spring mornings come, I am young and just waking from a dream.
Image by: Tatiana Gulenkina
We mistake our downward-spiral for that of the world, the radiance of forgotten suns, leaden doubt, to sink with the heavy weight of seven spheres, or cast wonder back upon the ledge where we rest on the edge of things, raised to the octave higher, to the outer-most exteriority and back again.
Image by: Tatiana Gulenkina
There is still the wind that I remember
firing the manes of horses, racing,
slanting, across the plains,
the wind that stains and scours the sandstone,
and the heart of gloomy columns, telamons,
overthrown in the grass.
Spirit of the ancients, grey
with rancour, return on the wind,
breathe in that feather-light moss
that covers those giants, hurled down by heaven.
How alone in the space that’s still yours!
And greater, your pain, if you hear, once more,
the sound that moves, far off, towards the sea,
where Hesperus streaks the sky with morning:
the jew’s-harp vibrates
in the waggoner’s mouth
as he climbs the hill of moonlight, slow,
in the murmur of Saracen olive trees.
Image by: John Howe
Once I saw a wolf tread a circle in his cage
amid the stench of monkeys, the noise of musty
jungle birds. We threw him bits of doughy
bread but he didn’t see us, padding on through
some imagined forest, his nose on blood.
We began to move on in boredom when he jumped
against the bars, snarled, then howled
in rage that long shrill howl that must remind
us of another life. Children screamed and ran,
their parents passing them in terror — the summer
day became hard and brittle. I stooped there
and watched his anger until the keeper
came with a Flash Gordon gun and shot him full
of dope. He grew smaller and sputtered into sleep.
…my friend, the marrow of the gods, the black thin walls that scratch out story after story, a billion bright stars shot through with deaths eye, from birth to age, the burial of wisdom is broken by trees that never died, as I hunted and fished for clocks wound backwards, on rainy nights, the wolf stalked my country side, while I asked god whose blood colored the sea, at elevens : eleven they looked down on me, I sunk in the river, in a mattress without comfort, happiness unfound in the dead feathers cushioning my skull, as their ancestors spoke in song upon the trees that would not die, I understand I am a fool, 37 years it is my birthday.
Inspired by and words re-arranged with my own from: After Ikkyu and other poems, by Jim Harrison