The first winter rain became our refrain, prose melted into poetry and streamed out in prose again, in circles, and the motifs multiplied, manifold. There were purple patches and crimson moments, then the dry spells came, and ironic expressions arose in eloquent swelters, “I cannot write, I cannot.” This became another refrain, the poetry the prose all froze, but only in the words that would not come. Those unforthcoming words still spinning miracles in life woven and unwoven of them, unseen, un-spelled, unspoken, unsaid, unheard of. At their peak when they come together aleph like, perhaps they crystallize in aphorisms; but without prosaic elaboration and poetic articulation, what good would writing be at all? So, I no longer know whether it is prose or poetry we study tomorrow, and when we write, what is to separate the two. And if we break out into song, or break it all down into a single aphorism; what it means or where all this is headed. I have no clue; please don’t follow me. Dead cliché, but follow you. I will die here using this term—its equivalent in eastern aesthetics is built on much more sane psychological mapping—but perhaps in this oriental shadow you will identify more readily whereabouts I mean when I put it the Freudian ego’s I. Let me put it into a bowl of rose water and seal it in an air tight glass jar. Raise it to the highest precipice I can reach, tip it over. Then we can, all of us: watch it splatter, shatter. When its shards come undone too by the sheer gravity of the moment, then there will be only you, whole; where I was but a shattered idiot going on about poetry, prose and aphorisms.
My dove, my beautiful one,
Arise, arise!
The night-dew lies
Upon my lips and eyes.
The odorous winds are weaving
A music of sighs
Arise, arise,
My dove, my beautiful one!
I wait by the cedar tree,
My mentor, my love.
White breast of the dove,
My chest shall be your bed.
The pale dew lies
Like a veil on my head,
My fair one, my fair dove,
Arise, arise!
From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
From love’s deep slumber and from death,
For lot the trees are full of sighs
Whose leaves the morn admonished.
Eastward the gradual dawn prevails
Where softly-burning fires appear,
Making to tremble all those veils
Of grey and golden gossamer.
While sweetly, gently, secretly,
The flowery bells of morn are stirred
And the wise choirs of fairy
Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.
Called a star's orbit to pursue,
What is the darkness, star to you?
Roll on in bliss, traverse this age---
Its misery far from you and strange.
Let farthest world your light secure.
[Apathy*] is sin you must abjure.
But one command is yours: be pure!
