I fear I may not have seen it at all,
this halting way you cross distances
to meet mine, always with the feigned ardour
of one who knows how smoke risen from
yesterday's lit candles clambers
heavenward only to be consumed by itself,
you who with mingled silences
prophesy the speeches of bells.
No, I have closed my eyes like shutters.
Shut them without even meaning to,
or knowing why.
Spurned vision without heed of light
that travels soundlessly into
my every soul, a lost blindman's poltergeist.
Darkness knows no perimeters. Darkness and smoke.
The mirrors of your eyes frighten me, I admit.
Only this morning's candles tell me thus:
That where you root your breath, or mine,
we leap out, and crash down,
and sightless, chase each other's distance still.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Blindness
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2 comments:
I read Ariel at least twice, and this still feels more superior. Two years past and this is still a classic.
I remember reading in J.Zafra's blog about how Lydia Davis writes a very approachable idea and then by the time it feels like it's almost too familiar, she throws you lines that take you aback. You are so far, other than Sylvia Plath and maybe some of what I remember of Louise Gluick (misspelled?), the only poet writer who does that in poetry real well. Approachable, but dangerous, because of the awaiting bomb.
-ny
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