January 17, 2013


Empty is only the warp of the tapestry,
the portion of pattern, is only the interval,
is solely the silence that shapes our pale music
heard faded when drifting towards day from our dreams;
from that sleep-shaded land where our souls
slake their thirst for the new, for the novel,
and the stone still rolls down the thousand-year cliff
from the first of our dreams, from the red heat of those plains,
from our search for safe shelter, from our consumption of carrion.

Yet if dreams hold an answer, as flowers clasp fog,

they must answer with breath, and, if they answer,

must move among stars, and have their own songs

of the body and blood, and must sing them....

        The eye's iris closing in the brightening light...
        The body, vanishing in the brightening light...
        The mind
               -- an old man running along a beach of blue sand
               with a young girl riding high on his shoulders --
               dissolves into its own memory.

        The lips
               -- pale and smiling
                      in the hot sanded winds
                             -- dissolve into a line,
        And the eyes
               -- gazing into the spaces between the stars --
               grow dim and close on the dark.
        Grow dim and sleep.
        Grow dim and sleep.
        Sleep long through the deepening dark beyond death....

Through dark on dark cupped in the palms of the far stars
where forged sunlight falls like feathers through bones,
through lost constellations without shapes, without names,
that are parts of the Pattern, forgotten mandalas,
while on Earth we return to the sun and the iris,
the iris and the sun, gleaming deep in that sleep
which only cool rain on the fresh leaves will lend us.

Stars fading....
        Sun rising....
                Windy city....
                  Morning returns
        forever as love returns....

We are all
awake now
        sunlight fall
              on all our faces gathered
                      here on a shore with no name,
                             on these blue sands by the crimson sea.

Stars above dwindle
        towards the edge of light,
               and whirling shake their tresses,
                      jet ebony, in a free wind blowing
east and west,
        wet and warm,
               now and forever,
               Hello, Good-bye, I'll always love You.

We hold each other
here in the hour of last light.
There are others with us.
We have met them in another time.

        for the moon is rising.
        for the sun delays.

[For J.]

Posted by Vanderleun at January 17, 2013 2:10 PM
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"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.

Thanks Vanderleun.

Posted by: Grace at January 17, 2013 4:49 PM

Yes, thanks. And thanks also to whatever (or whomever) inspired this burst of loveliness.

Posted by: Julie at January 17, 2013 5:05 PM

Mr. Vanderleun, You are very fortunate to have had the experiences of which you so beautifully write. Love doesn't find everyone.

Posted by: Roger Drew Williams at January 17, 2013 6:18 PM

Gerard, you are indeed a very good poet.

But the video is of a tidbit of cheesy has-been musical schlock. Morriconne wrote some excellent music in the past, and this is not one of them.

Posted by: Doug at January 18, 2013 8:17 AM

There's some amazing imagery in this one, my friend.

Thank you for sharing it with us.

Posted by: cond0011 at January 18, 2013 11:06 AM