Peter Cater [England]
[STRAVINSKY POEM]
1
In camera – while silence mars sops to undiscerning ears colonizing selflessly the silent interim – accomplished novice, you conduct the sound-proof experiment, a magnet for conjecture ably matched.
2
The troupe disowns its echo to revel in a rowdy house of cards against the bailiff’s famed and desperate eviction; denied an audience, they confer a tarnished crown on one to sway the null, the grave assembly and puzzle at the root of whim.
3
Daedalus who soars from Crete yet informs his labyrinth; that mineral assurance is flawed by the dead man’s broadcast alchemy – his mourners’ ransom, antidote for this hermetic winter.
SUPERFLUOUS REQUIEM
Shostakovich in memoriam
1
The thickening light becomes your medium, the facets of your death are now our fact and we may plot no further this exceptional departure than the ignorant capacity crazed in your eclipse, a monument.
2
Extolling the opportune death professional mourners vie for place but this is for myself that day when you must die in me – no stir in unrelated wastes and soundless that renowned sobriety.
3
Vagrants stumbling home we bear the ills in isolation which involve this whole dark company. A man withdrawn in common grief extends his hand to span that gulf to share with us no remedy, applies his conscious dignity to our disgrace. Eye to eye we greet the host whom we may not outface.
LULLABY
Insubstantial a bole, these smarts, as sparse nimbus at the parting – when the beggared world shall leave me – would be. Each stumbles in the black field, works his holding driven by an unrelenting master indomitable ward unplumbed to taint.
So we glean the robust moment and do not spare ourselves coming home, do not christen with sad tears, snide applause, the minimum of fuss.
THE HAUNTING
First air; then, as it cooled, a skin; and now a world, a ghost that goes on too many legs.
My shadow draws in anti-clockwise towards the noon encounter with myself returning empty-handed.
I taste like dust; due west tread the afternoon while in my head the earth turns on its double axis.
OFFERINGS
For Edgard Varèse and to Rick Dove
Ecuatorial
A forest of hands held aloft in supplication upholds the sky, its prayer transmuted by this sounding alchemy to wave-cry, wind-cry, screeching macaw, all voices raised to the jungle roof in unison.
The gods drink blood, blood runs, time runs in grooves laid down by those adept at thunder and number, feathered head-dress and jaguar skin their habit, their tool an obsidian knife upreared beneath the American sky.
Head in the clouds, they did not see the people gone, their gods alone, their cities turned to stone and given over to the silence which presides there now.
Desert, undated, grows in the petrified heart.
Déserts
The sun was mired in a trance when he dreamt this furnace, these fluxes, waste laid waste in a night without stars forever. Up there no angels, no rain, no forgiveness, Our Father which art in Heaven, Our fata Morgana, look down from on high where the false dawn stains the upper air and beyond to the Dog Star, to Algol, a nova begetting new heaven, new earth, the chimera within and without thought which rises when all is consumed and the ashes are cold.
Nocturnal
Later and last, you find yourself
under the earth still standing, standing still
and breathing in the dark, a dark he made
and brought to light, made audible
in deserts, in the darkened heart, the wailing
of the unborn, nailing hand and foot
to the wood – dead wood, dead blood, a mass
of shadows where these voices die.
PRAGUE DIPTYCH
I
Strahov, St. Vitus, a vertical language makes light of the evening. Overhead Europe lets fall on the Old Town’s upturned faces (does the city keep faith with its own skies?) red gold and ashes, an earnest regard.
Light turns to water as in your voice a story tells its fortune, future tense to body forth its visions unconfounded by clocks and bells, by all their clamour raised against the Founder-Queen on Vyšehrad, prophetic in her future myth.
The Winter King, he melted on White Mountain and left behind a name as in the folk tale, a name – and twenty-seven severed heads to keep a watch, their vigil ever fixed and frozen in all weathers.
Two houses. Now at their coming together a house with two suns, the conjunction at once of a disc on fire to show and a radiant face to bestow on the city its gold: a chalice for the ashes of Jan Hus; for us these shadows cast as epitaph, this silence in cupped hands.
II KAFKA-MOTIF
Alchimistengässchen. Exile welcomes the Everyman home – to lose himself further as only he can in a foreign body, an alien tongue with its insect-inflections; to hang on the world’s every word for the clue, though certain to be denied, for the clue which, spoken, unravels this labyrinth, its intricate play of tissue and gristle, of held and exhaled (your unquiet breath the cry of the jackdaw); certain, though tried, to be denied judgement, this is the world, the word it amounts to – a prison-house turned inside out. A vision of itself the castle rises as the eye does to a weatherbeaten sky.
NOCTURNE
Rain has a word for midnight much like my own - the hour turns inside out.
Rust, the retina of sleep is rust and lightning on my hands and in my hair.
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