To Marguerite Porete and some others
Open sea
White and swift thoughts
quicksilver softly corrupting the gold of time
annihiliated
transparencies of beguines
flowing in the crimson sun
of History
so free that faints the
power to tell it
Thoughts of a very old red
blended with pitching sand
similar in their smooth
and black fullness to these olives
from which the proudness
of seaweeds raises again with the coming hightide
Fair thoughts and yet out
of which the obsidiane flows
of this night so tender
and warm of the fading Being
electrifying our skys in
silent storms
Time is filling our cups
Nothing
but to drink out this
fairy-failure
this loss
but to coddle the breath
and brand of consciousness
in the white focus of our
bodies
The elven king glides on
the top of the waves
below the powder of
centuries the new blackness of his gaze glitters
In the ashes, the mat
jewel of Unity
in the tenuous evidence of
ashes
beyond any doubt
immediate
vertigo of certainty
To make it short
the One
that cannot be told
Present however
caress
to the skin and soul
unavoidable
breath of certainty
Present
in the very core of your
fragments
present
in the very flash of the
break
Inexpugnable
And silence
So this clarity that you
credit things with
is blunder
and though shadows and
ghosts multiply on the screen
in the very depth of
things, nothing is sure
but this beating heart of
all proof
Wash your eyes and read
the prism
See
There is nothing there
but the simple water of
your history
mocking and its beautiful
laughter that shakes
the hickups of these
rattles where your blood goes to waste
So entrust the clouds with
your all dreams of space *
and blow these smokes away
Never again shall you see
your mothers
Absence only gives weight
to returns
but their weights are
false
and their measures are
lies
Nothing that returns might ever be love
*
"Nous avons appelé notre cage l'espace, et ses barreaux
déjà ne nous contiennent plus"
Louis Aragon . (La nuit de Moscou)