writings of light assault the darkness,more prodigioud than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the country side.
Sure of my life and death,I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel,quick to attck.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of the same poverty .
They speak ofa homeland.
My homealnd is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits ,the willow's groves
visible prayer as evening falls .
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow ,Ipass through the loftily covetous multitide
......... they are indispensable,singular,worthy of tommorow,
My name is someone and anyone
i walk slowly like someone so far away he doesnt xpect to arrive!!!!!!!
The listening apparatus
Is silent –
Ahead of sound –
Your eyes gush
Like awakened
Blake.
From: kolkata, west bengal, India
About me: What would I be saying If I said, ‘The sky is true’? Would the dream pass more slowly If I lowered my voice, bassooned my vowels? No end to wonder, I find, And the evening mist is still. I talk in allegory when I speak to myself. I walk up the hill – my spirits rise. The process ‘saying’ again Is always about itself, about something Other than its content Its statement and assertion. I reach with every word For the truth of what I find— I miss and then I say something else. The reader, myself included, Gets only the altered after-saying. Where is the sky in all this--? The measure wavers – the link is broken – Disturbed, a trial of what is, Wanders, palpitates, grows worn In its youth— Like a design by William Morris Or brothel in Joyce’s arcane language.
