Friday, January 16, 2009

Sunday Scribbling #146: Pilgrimage

i. Estuary Shroud

Rana walked in the afternoon heat
Teardrop leaves, gold dust pollen at his feet
Shiva rumbled from his distance
Dreams of wet
The silent ones are listing

Why the long ache
Why the congenital speak
Why the inverse proportion
Anvil interpretation
Acetylene meadow
Coffin estuary
Shroud upon the noun

This is classic denial
Deaf leper at the crossroads
Kensington Square
These yellow hands
Feel the cartilage
Lose the bone, separate
Cast from crown
Wheat from chaff

Call the day this
Giant heart, this blowing
Wind, this diligent pearl.

ii. Artemis

Virtue rescinded
I see what essence is
At the brink
Of an eye
The blue gate,
A sand wall and 30
Bodies: compost for the chinars
Between here and Sangrama
They said,
“Come here for the beauty
And the chinar trees”
But come too for a taste.

Four big chinar trees standing
In the middle of the lake
Blue under the shade of centuries,
Lapis for the eye and throat.

In the midst of saffron fields
The place where Zoon was singing
Sona lank and Rupa lank
Which of the four will she cut, who
If any will she spare?
Paydar dreams the lake
Out of the dream of revolutionary dust
His mother a different blue than
Krishna’s veil at the lying gate.

The next day, 40 feed
The roots that will not wander
The blind eye at the Azadi Hotel


iii. Native Morn

After the midnight cries,
Over the river’s deep,
Sediment of love’s ruin;
An archer’s list—
Shocked by day
Stunned by wood
Flamed by fire risen.

From the lowlands
I stagger:
Fog mutes desire and hope,
Ancient crimes fallen,
The book of days—

After the black river
There is another
Woven down your back


By the cries.

Old chair on a shattered porch—
Moon’s loins,
Scattered eyes
Of night’s vigil.

Climb this tree:
My limbs, yours;
Yours, mine;
Ours, time has
Made revelry
Of loss.

iv. Druids, these revealed children

Druids, these revealed children
Blue umbrellas in the high blaze
Wandered through the plaza de las islas
Came to rest against white stone,

An old man the youngest boy,
Squatting, thighs to calves,
Shower shoes, green shorts and tee and
Someone’s heart broke
This afternoon of orphan time,
Tiny Buddha in limestone shade,
Sister lying prostrate in the heat,
Lifeless, eyes open to searing blue.

Mother wayfare broods,
The bottom of her belly—copious—
Stars fall in the lap of he who wanders
Heart razor-wired to memory
Crossing dreamland, crossing shattered, crossing
The last stitch of time
These gathered ruins
These splattered lives
A boy whose syllables sing the song of 46:

Sundays with fathers missed?
Pennies in his mother’s pocket?

Gather him, gather you
Riverbound, this one cool and
Clear. Gather. Cool hand upon his brow.
Gather. Birdsong in his heart, gold
Sun in his mouth. Count toes, count fingers—
Map the caverns from you to him,
Undertow of privation
Fields of weary, this weary world,
Worry world, worry.

What to give him, he me, my
Pockets too were empty—

My eyes. Here: take my eyes,
New and old,
The palms of your hands,
Cat’s eye, tiger, steelie

Etch your circle and let fly—



Blogger Tammie Lee said...

I sense you went on a deep pilgrimage as you wrote this one. I feel as though I wandered far in reading it. A tapestry you weave with words.

1:11 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Tammie: These were inspired by some "travels" with V S Naipaul in Pakistan and Iran, as well as walking downtown here in SA.

3:20 AM  
Blogger anno said...

paschal, this is extraordinary: beautiful, sad, and mysteriously buoyant; a heart's journey. I stopped highlighting favorite lines after the first part, because I was highlighting everything. The breathtaking hugeness of world caught in these lines, though, stopped me hard: Call the day this/Giant heart, this blowing/
Wind, this diligent pearl.

9:54 AM  
Blogger dormouse74 said...

a very beautiful post, thank you :)

10:21 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Thanks for walking the journey, too, Anno.

10:38 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Thanks for your words and your visit, dormouse.

10:39 AM  
Blogger b said...

This was beyond beautiful. I would like to use the quote:

What to give him, he me, my
Pockets too were empty—....

It speaks to charity and giving.


2:27 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

b: Thank you again for your visit and your appreciation. By all means, use the words.

Peace to you.

2:55 PM  
Blogger Tumblewords: said...

Exquisite! It leads, follows, twists and turns. Beautifully done! These words
Old chair on a shattered porch—
Moon’s loins,
Scattered eyes
Of night’s vigil.
stir and encourage.

7:59 PM  
Blogger alister said...

Etch your circle and let fly

Exquisite corpses by the by
Need no virtuous blink, no eye

Well, my dear, you have wrought another poetic work of art that speaks crazy to my soul, that keeps cruelly privy from my head, the spiritual knowledge held in your stead. And that is wise. For my head would only cut it down the middle and pin it back, while my heart lies shrouded in no lack : )

9:20 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Tumblewords: Thank you, as always, for your encouragement.

9:56 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Ms A, hermana, the morticians are at work: your corpse has traveled north and south and to Portugal and back; I'd say we're about halfway to the "ripening."

Thanks for joining me on all the pilgrimages...

10:05 PM  
Blogger present said...

Again, in this piece as in others you've written, there are so many levels to ponder and enjoy.
I especially like these lines,
"Climb this tree:
My limbs, yours;
Yours, mine;
Ours, time has
Made revelry
Of loss."
Being a bit of a constructivist, I will return again to seek the forest.

10:48 PM  
Blogger alister said...

Thanks? Oh, for goodness' sake, you’re welcome, but really you know I live to assimilate your brilliance. Give me just one of your brain cells, Brother, just one! I won’t spend it on drink, I promise! If only…
Certainly, I’m uplifted by the news of the corpse’s travels! I’ve given myself permission to become nauseatingly excited again :-D

11:21 PM  
Blogger Granny Smith said...

Dreamlike and bitterly real, tender, hopeless, hopeful. What a living tapestry you have woven! Thank you for this moving poem.

12:20 AM  
Blogger totomai said...

great 'travelogue' i might say. its like a collection of your travels and it was very effective as i felt i was invited to join you.

thanks for this

1:12 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

present: Unlike my oft-irreverent responses to the SS prompters, I was moved by this one; it pulled on me immediately. Thank you very much for your words.

5:17 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

DOM: Careful now, sister. The man's head size is big enough already. I believe our little blog tribe be a whole dandy box of floodlights shinin' on each other, lovely refractions.

5:21 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Granny Smith: Thank you again for your words.

5:23 AM  
Blogger murat11 said...

totomai: How nifty of you to pop in over here. I see you are getting out more! Thank you for reading and traveling along.

5:25 AM  
Blogger christy said...

This is beautiful, thank you for sharing. I especially like your use of color. You are a gifted poet, your images are intense and memorable.

1:09 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

Christy, thank you for your visit and your comments.

2:51 PM  
Blogger San said...

Did you post all or part of this at an earlier date? Or are the rhythms so inevitable I am experiencing a faux deja vu? In particular all of the "gatherings" sound as though I've been there. Have I?

5:36 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

San: Trust your eyes and ears, of course. The "druids, these revealed children" was posted before. I folded it in with the other two pieces. They seemed a good for fit, mood-wise.

5:28 AM  

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