Sunday, October 28, 2007

It is a walk across nowhere.
All that is in between is filled with song and madness.

Agha Shahid Ali pleads, “Mad heart be brave”…
What a sublime act of foolishness.

The day passes by in montage.
Dappled sunlight, furtive smile, strange loss.

Something’s being wrested, hard.
Something needs to be given up.

I say this again.
I can’t do this.

Either, I want my sorrow to be known
Or I don’t.

One seems vengeful.
The other inevitable.

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl, -
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And 'twas like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos - stopless, cool, -
Without a chance or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

-- Emily Dickinson.