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Night delirium
Clouds, not the ordinary moon,
manifest and lonely
in the dense scopes of dark,
clouds accompany the polymathic delirium
of this night.
Aggravated by the black vacuum
of the sky,
pallid perceptions of distances
crumble to blindness
like a tired eye,
and madness of colours
effaces itself
in the intricate evasions
of imagination.
The untuned reticences
of desire
transfix the ego
like a fake light,
enhancing its delirium,
while palaver of lips
discovers the sacred spaces
of silence.
Cautiously,
like old tune or voice,
the black load of fear
becomes tangible
in the capricious colours
of morning,
in the Phoenician sky
spreading over a reality
uncertain as faith.
There is a sense of panic
in the renewal of life.
The outrage of the years
is a swan song,
a remote surprise.
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| Canyon Landscape |
Loneliness
The hours feat on torpor
in the empty theatre
of my mind,
lame shadows
mocking the frosty movements
of the clock.
They are fatigued with indolence,
veterans of survival
and yet unable to outwit
the deft opacities
of the tedium of life.
Their loneliness accumulates emptiness,
years seeping away
through the weary fingers
of dissatisfaction.
Locked in the threshing circle
of time,
they bravely drain the darkness,
waiting for a miracle,
a concatenation of events
in blue halls of visions.
The fake light
of the subtracting night
will see them
rot into soil,
megalith-still
under a sky
without stars.
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| Contrasts |
Furor poetico
A flash of vision
intruding into the procrustean banality
of life
like a seeking hand,
blending colours
like drunken sky -
is this the ultimate vision
in the screaming confusion
of the real,
shining out above the chaos
of the self
and the muddy stream
of being?
It is an invitation to madness,
to join the stars
in their dance à rebours,
wilder than the tango
of thunder!
Furor poetico -
sweet suffocation
of mortal anguish,
shiny tension of the spirit
released
into the consummation
of nothingness -
is this divine madness
the beginning of wisdom,
the fevered surge
into the ultimate truth
hidden to the crowd of masks
floating towards their fate
like withered leaves?
The jettison of reason
is the defeat
of the chaos of potentiality,
the crack of light
begetting eternal bliss.
Poetic madness
is the sublimation
of the self.
III. (Morning sketch)
Swift copper fingers,
a steeplechase of colours,
coffee with sugar.
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| Fractal 3, Great Barrier Reef |
VI. (Night impressions)
A shower of stars
dancing in the depths of night,
reverie of child.
Square wheel
Lurching in the labyrinth of life,
I see dead dreams
ambling with downcast eyes
in huge Garden of Eden
deserted by God.
Something moves -
beat of blood,
pulse of pogrom,
tumbrel of truth,
square wheel
panting on unpaved path.
In white empty room,
child sings nursery rhyme,
bruised little body
hugging teddy bear.
Endeavours of dawn
push through crevices
pale as smile
of disenchantment,
hints of shadows
crack
under heavy steps
of light
crossing itself
with rusty nails
of being,
festering wounds
of time.
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| Not an Ordinary Sunset |
Shadows
At the edge of night,
impossibles stiffen
into potentiality
under phthisical sheets
of moonlight.
You have become a shadow
perched on deception,
a dream
in black and white,
for disbelievers.
Images emptying themselves
into the cave of fear
don't impress me
any more.
They are too eccentric
to be real.
The moon is a blue amnesia,
a magnificent absence
shouting behind dumps of clouds
like a wilful general.
It still feels grandiose,
eminénce grise without followers.
Ineradicable as hope,
the stars go their way,
white as a bandage.
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| Sun Shining Over the Ocean |
VIII. (Child's prayer)
Buds of blue silence,
the fain prayer of a child,
guttering candle.
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| Beach |
The quest
Like cry of gull
fading away in the quiet of twilight,
slinking through felicities
of light and shade,
the soul strives after its goal,
spanning flights of eternity
and snaps of visions.
Flying over shards of time
strewn over patches of landscape
pale with mortality
and songs of moon,
unable to stop
where sorrow laughs
like drunken clown
at the indifference of the world,
or where necessity deplores
its deplorable existence,
the soul hovers towards its goal.
Shaping itself
into explosions of light,
flights of birds
and bizarrie of winds,
the soul continues its quest,
unaware of changes
and extravaganzas of being.
Until one day,
one night, sometime,
after endless succession of seasons
and shine of sun and moon,
it cautiously comes down
and fold its wings
on the same branch
from which it departed,
singing its most beautiful song.
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| Fractal 36 (Garden of Eden) |
Charmed
In the miraculous spell
of twilight,
when syllables are cadences,
not music,
visions are alien
to the dead stringency
of algebra and logarithms.
Imagination doesn't know
it is an imagined thing,
and mistakes its affections
for whims of the will,
a supreme manifestation
of mana.
It transfixes objects
like a dance,
avoiding the intricate allusions
of entelechy,
hammering at the sill of night
like a frightened Muse.
At the edge of self,
the imagined imagines itself
free from the burden
of being.
I. (Dawn)
Orange blooms at dawn,
tangerine and purple hues
aglow in the sky.
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| It Was Late at Night |
Song
The stillness of the air
pierces my soul
like flight of birds
or flow of petals -
warm, unpredictable.
Too much has been said
during the day -
chaos of words
unable to join
into meaning
or carousel of innuendos.
The forced implications
of polysemy
bereft the mind
of the apocryphal comfort
of simplicity,
communication
as in the beginning,
when the troubled reflections
of the ego
didn't sing a swan song
on the cliff of death
surmounting
trail of drift
and debris.
Spokes of light
turned out to be
deceptive as faith,
vanishing in the apocalypse
of twilight
like a nursery rhyme.
Where does the ultimate truth,
beautiful Thule,
halt the excited efflux of the soul
and the chaos of atoms
taking hold of existence
in the name of some convention
never deliberated,
forcing itself into being
like a scream?
The stillness of the air -
bucket of ashes
strewn
over astonished souls,
enhances the uncertain light
of truth
in the Virgilian cadences
of silence,
dancing with shadows
on the threshold of heaven.
The inescapable rhythm of life
relaxes into a song
under the holy ashes
of sacrifice.
XI. (Evensong)
Vestiges of sunshine
in the dwindling vale of dusk,
bells and evensongs.
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| Three Sisters (Katoomba) |
Drunken angels
Sangria-puddles
in sunset sky,
drunken angels,
clinking glasses,
a peal of laughter.
Nightfall.
Waves of silence
breaking against
a child's prayer.
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| Jeux du Soleil |
XIII. (Sketch)
Snapping synapses
of clouds, sun fighting its way
through explicit black.
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