Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Roses of Twilight


It was not for the real,
melting as two reflections

in the tall
unwavering glass

of a dark street

where we connected
as real and unreal—

one of us safe,
one of us in danger—

our eyes in dark receiving
of the glance.

You almost touched my shoulder.
I almost brushed your sleeve.

How can we ever forget each other now,
we who, for a moment, were so intimate?


The room I left was empty
except for the memory of sorrow.

Sorrow lived in the shadow
that existed in the mirror.
The glass shifted and I shrank back.

The room had six walls if you count
the ceiling and the floor.

The window belonged to
the doorway and the doorway
belonged to the hall.

I belonged to the shadow
but the shadow no longer loved me.

I broke the mirror and let the shadow go.
The window broke my face
into shards of reflection.

I left the room and entered the hallway
which had an exit.



These winter lines, full of cold fact and anguish,
the new word—made out of stone, that old word;
and still we make it through another season
of abject difficulty.

Transition.—that’s what you say to the questions
I would ask—only transitions. And I am one,
and you another. We are replicas of
the dark meanings we inflict upon ourselves.

I will go with the third distance, I tell you,
leaving you with your roses of twilight—
that new image, scent surrounding you;
birds singing in time’s cold light.

The glass walls of the years break softly
around us as we go through them—leave shards
and shards of each other floating away.
There is no before and there is no after.


Now is the our of tight arms holding on
to the falling. Nothing is plumb. There is
no direction to consider. The floor is far
away. The ceiling even farther. The dream
is urging you to step inside. But you are
reeling inward. There is no one watching
to prove this. Time is about to non-exist,
though it owns the dark. The clock opens
its face to meet your cry. The room tilts
accordingly, and every instinct resists.
You are replicated where you meet the
advancing mirror. Escape here, says the
glass. Your image steps inside—turns—
and helps you through. This is not possible,
you think, but a long hallway leads you to
a door—a slowly opening door—where
someone inside is turning toward you with
open arms, urging you to remember.


                                “Girl at a window”
         Balthus (Balthasar Klossowski),
French, b. 1908, Oil on Canvas, 1957

a window,
look out upon
the moonlit hour—
wish you were not stricken
with mundane obligations . . . 
the night floods in with sympathies.
You are released . . . into what power?



The blue wives stand by the open window
listening to the rain, welcoming
the cold night air that agitates the curtains.

They shiver,
but wait for the sound—
or the absent voice—or the recollection.

They stand in the moonlight
and wait for whatever they are waiting for.
And they will consider, opening toward decision.

An owl, maybe,
will answer.  They won’t be sure, but
want it to be so, for they have never heard an owl.

They feel the moon pull over the sky—
taking time with it over the slow night where
they stand by the open window—listening to the rain.


Today's LittleNip:


its great leaves moving through sunlight
            glinting in a green dance
                         between air and light,

a mystery of birds hidden there.
            I hear them.  I feel the dance
                         from inside the window.


—Medusa, with thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix, finishing up our current Seed of the Week, Opening the Window. Our new SOW is My Favorite Painkiller. Think literally, or think metaphorically. What takes away your pain? Send SOWs to kathykieth@hotmail.com; no deadline.