C’est seulement le vent……

This is about all the pain of renunciation. The title comes from 37 degrees le matin or Betty Blue. It is about severance. I was also experimenting with the shape of words on a page.

———————————————————————–

 Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked amongst these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.

It is not a garment that I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands…..

 

Kahlil Gibran,“The Prophet”  Penguin Books ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL.

ISBN 0-14-019447-9 

 

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to take these fingers

 sharp

 from the grind-stone day

and turn

 turn

 

to pierce the cavern of my chest

 and

 rip

 open the fleshy fabric of this

 

 this

 this

 thing 

that is me

 and part the meaty, dreamy me

 

and the

 sail bone

 tale bone white

 that secures

 me

to the world

 and

 as the seeping

dream of each

 vital

 vital blood

 drips the fingers bare

 

to seek

 and

 ……and

 to once again hear

 

 fairies on the wind

such as do tinkle

golden dew drop notes

 

and

 and

 and

 summon fire

 

as

 as

 a water

 that trickles treacle over these fingers mine

 

 as I

 open

 rip

and

 now

 use

 those eyes

 of

blue within blue

 that see deep in darkest night

 

and

 still

 still

 do

 smell

 

the faintest hope of a forgotten dawn

 

lest

darkness

 for

 ever

 hold sway

 and rend the fabric

 this fabric

 of life

 

such

 to clothe no more this day

 against the cold

 and the

 and the………

 

C’est seulement le vent…….

 

 as the fragile sea-horse dance

writes the fantasy dream

of a dreamer caged

 caged by the bars of practicalities

 else should summon the dragon breath

 to blow first fire

 and

 and then fresh

fresh

 as the

 dew of a word

 a

 word

 that decorates the icing sugar dream of a

 of  a

 of

 a

 better world

 

and

 and all those reasons

 they

 stake the heart

 the heart of magic and belief

 

 so that

 the sorry

 will be never enough

 and for such want

 dies tinker-bell

 

cold and afraid in the forest of the mind

and

 and

 and

 

now wanders on the windswept morrows of a dawn

 yet

 yet

 to rise

 weighting

 weighting

 for a sliver of a dream

 sliced in the timpani of the heart

 to fold such letters

as were yet to write

 

 as the quill of it

 now

 now

 quivers

 over the inkwell

 

rid of

 rid of

 all the

 octopus wages of the past

as  a squid may yet question

 why?

 

 would seek to share

 the anemone memory

 brought on the tide

 as fresh and familiar as

the corralled dreams

 of those  pacific island blues

 

where now the torrent

marks

 the

 feeling, surging

 life

 

and

 to gather fish-scales

of perfect opal

 and dress the world in ways

 

ways

 gone by

 

as am meant to do

and damn

 damn

 the mind

 

for to touch the feather fabric of the dream

 with the italic

slant

 

 made so

 so subtle

 and so fine

 

seeks the blood

dripping

 fast

 fast in every line

 as now must

 or

 else

 and

  put away those swords

 

please

 please

  take those fingers

and feed that thread

 back through the iron

 point

 and close

 close

 ……close

 

less the lightning bolt rips

 asunder…

 all

 all that is

 me

 

and yet would still question the island theme….

 

still

 it is no more

 no more

 than

 a

dream……