The Colour of Words
Tell me the colour of words,
the rainbow phrases
splashed across the daily canvas.
Like when seagulls skate through lilac clouds,
and desert crabs hone their calligraphy skills across
the burnt sienna sand.
Tell me the colour of words,
the colour of slavery.
The rainbow bondage
stretched across the human frame,
the blue of sleepless veins,raw red skin
the black hole mind
that once roamed free.
The priest wears black,
mourners dress the same.
Candles burn a yellow flame.
Observe the colours of drought,
the rainbow land
rust-red, grey turning to white
the aborted seed, bone scraps
in the coffins of the parched streams.
Faded greens of fading leaves.
But what of thirst,
tell me the colour of thirst.
Rainbow lips and tongue
eyes devoid of hues.
Tell me the colour of dreams,
the rainbow visitors, a picnic
in your own meandering mind,
tints of every kind.
Ripe tomatoes red, blue feathers blue.
But what of truth.
Tell me the colour of truth,
the colour of trust
of love
of pain
of hope
of touch
of fear
of prayer
of wrong of right.
Tell me the colour of words,
the pigments of life
in the dark and the light.
Of why of why
(for Paul Celan)
Pearl
Mother of pearl
Ivory and bone
Bone of my Mother
Bronze
Silver and gold
Handle of steel
Of rust of tears
Of why of why
Blade of rust
Stalagmite of sighs
Blade of stone
Of bone
Bone of my Mother
My Mother of pearl
Drowning in rust
Razor of gold
Rummage for gold
Silver in bones
Of good-by of good-by
Of why of why
Of cry
Cry of violins
Slice through the hair
Through the middle of pearl
Of bone
Of silver and gold
Dying in rust
Eyes final wave
Through windows of wire
Stalagmites sigh
Of good-by of good-by
As deaf violins cry
Of why of why
TO RISE AND SING (pantoum)
We have waited long for your coming,
the farmer in the field has waited long
the soil bereft of tears to shed
the wheat bereft of strength to rise.
the farmer in the field has waited long,
frogs relay the news tapping out their code
the wheat bereft of strength to rise
wakes slow as from a firm established coma.
frogs relay the news tapping out their code
butterflies yawning test their voices
waking slow,as from a firm established coma
so the thirsty earth as one takes up the song.
butterflies yawning test their voices
the cricket, the bee and snail clear their throats
so the thirsty earth as one can sing the song
a tune made only sweet by rain.
the cricket, the bee and snail clear their throats,
the soil bereft of tears to shed sings loud
a tune made only sweet by rain,
We have waited long for your coming.
A day for Beholding
So many things I have not seen
and yet so much I have.
Take purple for example,
I have seen it drape its naked self
devoid of shame across an aubergine
observed it one evening leave first
the table of the setting sun,
shuffle like a homeless man
then roll slow into the sea.
Of course I missed the crowd
(or was I there another me?)
when the law of Rome
threw down the purple and the thorns
the robe and the crown
volcanoed the library of history
echoing still from town to town.
I never witnessed Gandhi
shake the hand of faith
or saw the streets of Arles
through Vincent's eyes,
and Pavlova dying as the swan
died before I knew my name.
So many things I have not seen
and yet so much I have.
I once espied memorials
wrinkled on a mother's face,
saw a child of cloud
lost as a summer snowflake
roam the desert sky
and a seagull walk a tightrope
thin as air and then trapeze
into a somersault without a net.
All this I discovered in one day,
a day for beholding.
They walk in the steps of their Maker
(for Giacometti - group of three men)
They walk as one yet each man walks alone,
each inside his own mystery his secret step
where the air follows its ordained path collecting dust,
between whispers between sighs between the drum
their sculptured gaze they gulp recycled oxygen of life.
Strangers joined at the umbilical cord,
forever to walk apart together
judged by the same jury as Sisyphus,
sentenced by their maker without appeal
without parole, without a bench or bed.
Where have you walked what have you seen?
"He wants to know what we have seen
Seen seen, he wants to know what we have seen."
"Tell him, yes tell him go on tell him
Ovens, we have seen the ovens tell him;"
Tears, overflowing with boiling tears
bones as dry as drought tongues the colour
of steaming rice.
"Seen seen, he wants to know what we have seen;"
Fields where only crosses grow one part nightmare
two parts real fertilized in spring and clouds,
yes once we saw no sky only vulture clouds
with razor beaks and shark teeth claws.
"Tell him about the pages, go on tell him,"
of history, papers piling in heaps on roads
on roofs inside rooms behind the secret code,
refusing to burn to melt to vanish in the boil.
Yes we have seen the will of history;
hooked with our bare hands
from the jaws of hurricane and time
parchments of stories, jigsaw tales and songs,
songs and dance too cunning for vultures too swift
for tentacles of fire.
"Tell him we followed the blowing pages"
words written in sand, pastels in holy places
blood illustrations you can trace in braille;
follow the trail from father to son to father
to widows snipping roadside poppies.
"Yes we have seen the will of history
knot in the thread of the telling"
twenty versions How to Thread a Needle,
From the classroom to the kitchen
from meetings in musty halls
corner tables in crowded bars
chance encounters sharing a train seat
to political rallies and headline spreads,
We have witnessed spies who would not reveal
whose fate tied further knots in the folklore tale
We have traipsed the tides the pilot moon
with map and compass torched our journey
We have climbed our maker's mountain
crossed the perspiration bridge and thus inscribe
those ancients wise were not mistaken
The earth we walk is flat.
Yet we were present then, still joined in the light
crimson gold and orange gossip tainted our cell
all speech mutated to sound by the dying sun
while we three witnessed the birth
"Tell him about the scar, go on tell him"
yes it is our scar on the certificate.
More than Water Lilies
(for Monet)
Ophelia too has come to swim these waters,
braiding flowers through teenage hair
humming her heart to the Danish prince
hoping to find in this refraction of light and life
her lost summer in the sun, a sanctuary from madness
a private shrine within these consecrated brush-strokes.
Here beside the pool in the shade of the blue
where water and lilies mauve with the breeze
another sings; 'Lilac my lover wears, tangerine silk'.
Aphrodite voicing Adonis in her mind.
Willows weep the weep of joy, that universal bliss
lovers weave like confetti spells sprinkled on the grass.
Reflecting sun-toes tripping light as wings, changing
scenes from moving film alive upon the waters.
A bridge, a lake, chromatic sails of plants of faith
of seasons of the self expressed with fork and spade.
This gardener knew the natural heartbeat of the soil
the touch required to stimulate bamboo, the blossom
the iris and lily pads. Knew the secret of the clouds
wisps of coloured cotton dancing on the pond.
Here is peace and calm from a disfunctional world
created by vision through a deepening mist.
Immortal in the pigment of his eye.
Jan Van Eyck -- Painter
'religious studies-portraits-weddings'
(Arnolfini Wedding Portrait)
Giovanni Arnolfini must have other matters on his mind
commerce mergers perhaps, financial gambles, lost affairs
or a marriage arranged against his better judgement.
His far-away gaze appears to complement the bored
expression of his wife to be, is she in a hurry to reach
the nuptial bed or does she dread the tales she heard.
Only the dog with wisdom in her eyes
salutes the congregation
the celebrant the artist.
She watches without moving
(like her counter-part Mona Lisa)
every corner, distance to close-up
left to right right to left.
Is this pup a gift from groom to future wife, a dowry
or just a stray lost in the ceremonial chamber. Wait
could this be an omen, a bearer of love, of trust
till death do us part, companionship a token of faith.
This dog has even dragged a pair of clogs, forgiveness;
yes we foregive to delight in the reprimand.
Or is Mr. Van Eyck her master.
A promise of a tasty bone
combined with immortality
in exchange for obedience,
the painter's symbolic stroke.
The flavour of the promised bone is unknown.
The promise of immortality is preserved.
