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Stone Angels
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Angels go - we
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Merely stray, image of
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A wandering deity, searching for
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Wells or for work. They scale
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Rungs of air, ascending
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And descending - we are a little
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Lower. The grass covers us.
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But statues, here, they stand, simple as
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Horizon. Statements,
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Yes - but what they stand for
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Is long fallen.
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Angels of memory: they point
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To the death of time, not
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Themselves timeless, and without
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Recall. Their
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Strength is to stand
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Still, afterglow
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Of an old religion.
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One can imagine them
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Sentient - that is to say, we may
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Attribute to stone-hardness, one after the
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Other, our own five senses, until it spring
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To life and
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Breathe and sneeze and step
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Down among us.
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But in fact, they are
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The opposite of perception: we
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Bury our gaze in them. For all my
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Sympathy, I
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Suppose they see
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Nothing at all, eyeless to indicate
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Our calamity, breathless and graceful
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Above the ruins they inspire.
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I could close my eyes now and
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Evade, maybe, the blind
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Fear that their wings hold.
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The visible body expresses our
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Body as a whole, it's
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Internal asymmetries, and also the broken
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Symmetry we wander through.
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With practice I might
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Regard people and things - the field
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Around me - as blots: objects
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For fantasy, shadowy but
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Legible. All these
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Words have other meanings. A little
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Written may be far too
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Much to read.
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A while and a while and a while, after a
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While make something like forever.
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From ontological bric-a-brac, and
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Without knowing quite what they
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Mean, I select my
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Four ambassadors: my
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Double, my shadow, my shining
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Covering, my name.
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The graven names are not their
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Names, but ours.
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Expectation, endlessly
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Engraved, is a question
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To beg. Blemishes on exposed
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Surfaces - perpetual
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Corrosion - enliven features
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Fastened to the stone.
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Expecting nothing without
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Struggle, I come to expect nothing
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But struggle.
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The primal Adam, our
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Archetype - light at his back, heavy
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Substance below him - glanced
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Down into uncertain depths, fell in
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Love with and fell
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Into his own shadow.
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Legend or history: footprints
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Of passing events. Lord
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How our information
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Increaseth.
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I see only
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A surface - complex enough, it's
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Interruptions of
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Deep blue - suggesting that the earth
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Is hollow, stretched around
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What must be all the rest.
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My "world" is parsimoniuos - a few
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Elements which
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Combine, like tricks of light, to
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Sketch the barest outline. But my
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Void is lavish, breaking
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It's frame, tempting me always to
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Turn again, again, for each
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Glimpse suggests more and more in some
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Other, farther emptiness.
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To reach empty space, think
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Away each object - without destroying
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It's position. Ghostly then, with
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Contents gone, the
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Vacuum will not, as you
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Might expect, collapse, but
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Hang there,
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Vacant, waiting an inrush of
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Reappointments seven times
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Worse than anything you know, seven other dimensions
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Curled into our three.
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But time empties, on
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Occasion, more quickly than
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That. Breathe in our out. No
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Motion moves.
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Trees go down, random and
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Planted, the
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Way we think.
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The sacrificial animal is
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Consumed by fire, ascends in greasy
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Smoke, an offering
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To the sky. Earthly
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Refuse assaults
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Heaven, as we are contaminated by
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Notions of eternity. It is as if
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A love letter - or everything I
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Have written - were to be
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Torn up and the pieces
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Scattered, in
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Order to reach the beloved.
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No entrance after
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Sundown. Under how vast a
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Night, what we call day.
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What stands still is merely
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Extended - what
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Moves is in space.
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Immobile figures, here in a
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Race with death gloom about their
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Heads like a dark nimbus.
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Still, they do - while standing -
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Go: they've a motion
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Like the flow of water, like
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Ice, only slower. Our
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Time is a river, theirs
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The glassy sea.
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They drift, as
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We do, in this garden so swank, so grandly
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Indiscriminate. Frail
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Wings, fingers too fragile. Their faces
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Freckle, weathering.
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Pure spirit, saith the Angelic
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Doctor. But not these
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Angels: pure visibility, hovering,
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Lifting horror into the day,
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To cancel and preserve it.
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The worst death, worse
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Than death, would be to die, leaving
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Nothing unfinished.
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Somewhere in my life, there
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Must have been - buried now under
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Long accumulation - some extreme
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Joy which, never spoken, cannot
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Be brought to mind. How else, in this
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Unconscious city, could I have
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Such a sense of dwelling?
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I would
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Raise... What's the opposite
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Of Ebenezer?
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Night, with it's crypt, it's
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Cradlesong. Rage
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For day's end: impatience,
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Like a boat in the evening. Toward
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The horizon, as
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Down a sounding line. Barcarolle,
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Funeral march.
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Nocturne at high noon.
The Rolling Stones - Angie - OFFICIAL PR...
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