On the Rothorn<\/p>\n
The Mira star
\nHardly visible now
\nDoubly concealed<\/p>\n
This portion of sky
\nDescending to earth
\nLifting the light of day<\/p>\n
The sun touching the rocks
\nHere I stood in disbelief
\nNot to be alone<\/p>\n
By the light of the Laterna Magica
\nMy hearing
\nExposed to the echo<\/p>\n
Of silence
\nThat breaks itself
\nTo reach into the wide<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Attempting to make sense
\nOf what one hears from the eagle
\nWhen he tries to learn from ravens
\nAnd wasting most of his time<\/p>\n
Listening to the talk
\nOf domino players what
\nAre the wolves doing in the tree
\nThe sunny side being empty<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A few pebbles
\nRolling over the lakeshore
\nGrains of sand tossed into the air
\nBeginning on the deepest ground
\nTo become weightless
\nLight<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
On the skin of fishes against the scales
\nThe blueness of blue<\/p>\n
For the modern nomad
\nWhite paper and quarterly report
\nAnything crossing his path he names
\nUnquivering in his squareness
\nMysterious radio signals
\nFrom the centre of the Milky Way<\/p>\n
Surfing electrons
\nRiding plasma waves
\nBending aluminium foil
\nAccelerating protons
\nWith particle cannons
\nHe builds a stairway to outer space<\/p>\n
For children and old people
\nDream and truth are one
\nAnd who will protect
\nThose who love?<\/p>\n
He who speaks with a forked tongue?
\nAre you William Blake?
\nYes, that’s who I am. I will bring you to the bridge
\nMade of water and air
\nIn the end this world
\nWill concern you no longer<\/p>\n
Take this heavy load onto the journey
\nHard times for sparrows & Co.
\nHanging weighed down in the ether
\nBumble bees and artists of the air<\/p>\n
For it’s autumn now
\nIn the sky
\nPostcard-sized the loose feather grass<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The earth has its history the sun
\nIts life the moon its laws
\nand he, he would use pitch
\nTo seal his boats<\/p>\n
Devour a slice of heaven
\nWithout joy turn his stomach
\nWhen sulphur fumes rumble
\nHurl rocks across magma flows
\nFull of furore scatter black glass
\nOver the landscape on pock-marked stone<\/p>\n
Guard the rocks‘ oil with power
\nAnd heat beneath the ice of the sea
\nThat belongs to no-one and all
\nEven the wilted bugloss
\nThe alyssum that claws its way
\nUp vertical slag slopes<\/p>\n
He who would prop up the mountain
\nWhere master and dog lie buried
\nTogether beneath the thistles where
\nBlue-throated lizards multiply
\nIn cave passages and
\nGeckos bring good luck to the day<\/p>\n
And he, what by all means should he do
\nTo sing his own song freely
\nAs the warbler sings the song of his kind
\nBecause that is what he does<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Wandering the ancient sea bed
\nOn the relief of basalt blocks<\/p>\n
Easy to see on clear days
\nOur second sight<\/p>\n
Tied recollection and flashbacks
\nWe crawl on breast and bone<\/p>\n
Our hands warm enough
\nTo open up the Now
\nBy the oldest realm in the water\u2019s flow<\/p>\n
While searching for landmarks
\nFor the five-armed starfish
\nOnce brighter but unseen
\nMissed beforehand by water and earth<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Moss animals on the rock slope
\nCrabs and sponges
\nOpulent mattings<\/p>\n
Drawn down weightlessly
\nRaised up
\nBy their own weight<\/p>\n
Falling back into themselves
\nEndlessly pliant driven out
\nInto the open<\/p>\n
Among mussels bone eaters
\nWith sabre fangs
\nExcess in petrification<\/p>\n
The boundaries
\nOf their equations unequally
\nShifted<\/p>\n
As far as it’s possible
\nAs far as it can be possible
\nThat nothing entirely fades<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u00a9 Rosemarie Zens, Hidden Patterns, Berlin 2010<\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n