blurring the semes


It is found again!
What? Eternity.
It is the sea mixed
With the sun


Outside the train swarms a vast ocean of sand-coloured grass
teeming with the embryos of poems waiting
to be dreamed ...


Beyond language and this steaming train
lay everything known before birth
when a queen and a favourite
knew how to play cards
at the bottom of a lagoon
decorated with the tempestuous
embroidery of sainted aunts
and other golden headlands ...

But that was before I fell into the sea
to search beyond the fringèd curtain of mine eyes,
to find your mind agape and red-hot.


Now words are being drawn
onto the passing picture
planes ...
Who is weaving
these infinite threads of loss?


The glass screens out the actual sounds and smells
but closing her eyes she knows them ...


inscribing images
inscribing images
inscribing images


Upon closed eye-lids there is an after-blur
of squarish windows turning blue and red,
funnelling murky colour along the clumsy
telegraph poles of memory ...
reminiscent of scattered mosaics:
overhead tramwires and sky;
alchemy and the earth, nubile
and rich in blood; the young Rimbaud
and the absolute certainty of death ...


Later, when plummeting into an unknown world 
where being relies on something other than flesh
she'll see your poetry
attired in Royal Robes
cavorting across space
trailing extravagant trains of fabric
dyed purple & blue & the deepest indigo
and strewn with streams of golden tassels.
They'll be transformed, transported, 
shot through with meaning beyond
your wildest dreams, 
enthralled, entranced --
		too busy to stop, for anyone.


Throughout her body there will be the roar and trumpet of this endless savannah, its entirely sumptuous notes pressing close to her swollen belly. And whole acres of time will pass when the plains shall blaze as if for the utter joy of being alive in the sun: their plenitude will take up and swallow all other themes ...


And permeated throughout the movement of this immense expanse both inside and outside the sensation of self ... the train mumbles, still. The train mumbles of everything lost and gone, lost and gone forever ... and of distance, that will not submit, that will not submit.

Distance refusing to lessen its evangelical call to life.
Distance shouting like a thousand bellowing yokels.
Distance bringing to life the delighted but tragic
                   orchestra of earth and sky.


She stares at a small faded child 
	disappearing into the landscape, 
	a tiny typed asterisk 
	set against a sea 
	of bleached yellows.
		The train now smiling.


She looks at the lines outside.
The semi-imagined
straggling brushstrokes. The tiny movements
of a pencil across the train window. The myriad chance scratches.

Eyes tracing lines, crossing and tripping, and singing and shouting and stumbling along, now fast, now slow ... now non-existent.


It is gone.
The emptiness unashamedly filters out all else.


But when I thought all was lost
you flamed amazement
and with rough magic
promised calm seas
mixed with the sun ...


What? It is found ...

Diane Caney, 1998
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