Sing To Me Softly Of Earth - Part Four
Alice Mourou - Unsplash
© Copyright 1999 A. S. Kline All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Man is the gardener now, in the garden empty of gods,
dreams the cold fountains and the frozen streams,
the stone grass, the ice earth, the statues.
There are figures there, Goya's doll faces,
the blind-man's-buff of movement.
No touch, no taste,
under the crystal, clarion brilliance.
This season now, where we are most at home.
The gush of air and light in the dark trees
that makes firs sigh greenly together
is like a bent rower with the sky on his back
rowing through the depths of the wood, through time,
is like Gauguin's bareback rider of riversides
who crouches under whiplike branches.
Space roars but we come down to the small meadow's,
sunlit silence. It is like leafing through
Breughel's towers , hells, landscapes, and coming
across the drawing of human figures, on paths
of light, flickering among trees, where at last
individuals, walk, and talk, and the silence waits
for time to flow, for Rembrandt to begin.
The world flickering, is still.
The truly-loved, concentrated on
becomes our own image of our existence.
Place by place remembering what is loved.
The pure technique, in having no observer,
no desire, free of time's claims and its obligation,
speaks in a place beyond that movement teaches,
a place of light, and light's delerium.
Fearful touch, like mouth on mouth, or arm on arm
ensnaring, in the undemanded future.
A space, of something seen by love
its silent eye.
Mind, centrifuge of flame, still circling
the fall of light on walls, the leaves, the roads.
A spring and autumn landscape of the heart.
And colour, like a god, humbly passing.
Time then, and the Earth shifts under our feet.
Terror. Courage is to be our own firmness
a pillar of fire.
In the cage of History, one more or less.
But to be a voice, a mind, a pair of eyes.
Stillness behind the moon lifts up the hills.
Tongues press greenly on the word.
White foam in the sea's bowl is the spine
of the silent minotaur's emerging.
In mind is the pressure of the mirror,
the unbreathing night darker than a stone.
What is this beating in the cage of bone ?
O round white mouth forever searching.
the animal eyes,
where we are.
See now, there,
the Nothingness flower,
body, mind, process,
discover the sacred.
how silence, stillness invade
what no-one made.
the empty garden now.