Tag: moraine

Posted on in Poetry

Presopta Place

I am not in a hurry

I am not going anywhere

I am being

as the Celts would say

The rocks smile at me

as they have done

for some time now

I cannot be sure

they are where I left them

They might have moved

an inch or two

a couple of miles

reassembled at first light

when shapes take form

struck a pose

usually smiling

They are old parchments

containing a language we do not speak

we haven’t bothered to learn

of light and shade

cracks and splodges

The universe is language being formed

We ourselves are words in the making

waiting to be pronounced

our definition fixed for the dictionary

what we will be

breath water and flesh

the sound of creation

a hum

lips crashing together

like waves mid-ocean

or mountain goats

as matter

­– flesh, the consonants –

comes into being

the oceans and rivers are vowels

and air God’s breath

the letter h

the beginning of language

We are waiting to be expelled

from this cavernous mouth

that is space

spoken

Black holes are nothing more than throats

and stars are light-bearing larvae

grubs clinging to the palate

As God opens his mouth

(he hasn’t spoken yet

– speech is the general resurrection

the waves that never meet

finally landing on the shore)

space expands

winds rage across the cosmos

carrying particles

– up and off

at and into –

smoke

I am a word

perhaps to form part of a sentence

with you

together we will give meaning

or diverge

like paths in the forest

– Golden Bridges, White Birches –

only to meet

further down the page

or in another chapter

I am breath (h)

vowels (saliva)

flesh (substance)

I am lost

in the Magic Forest

sun-dappled and quiet

waiting to be remembered

Memory is not something that has happened

It is something waiting to happen

the only way

we can be translated

into another reality

is to leave behind

the form we have taken

to all intents and purposes

to disappear

to cover the Translator’s hiatus

until he remembers us

and names us

(a template no longer)

The two conditions for translation

are faith and memory

to leave behind our form

to cease to exist

so we can be expressed

once more

A word dies and is reborn

In that transition

the Translator’s memory

(our speck of faith)

is all.

Jonathan Dunne

Presopta Place (Mount Vitosha), August 2024

Posted on in Poetry

Symphony

Boulders

dumped by an irresistible force

a primeval behemoth

that has since disappeared

(like T. Rex)

Bones strewn across a field

remnants of an ancient battle

Covered in lichen and moss

Frozen in time

seemingly still

almost impossible to budge

Round, triangular, jagged

Old letters

(there are only so many directions

calligraphy can take)

The man who steals

should be made to transport one

a couple of inches

and then asked

if he wants to steal

again

Only the hermit

knows how to lift one

with his little finger

And the gnats

that bounce on the wind

as if it was solid ground

or gravity had gone out of fashion

In places

they support a bench

or a bridge

and then they submit

gracefully

Then it is we

who put the weight

on them

They sometimes

form part of a path

or allow themselves

to be spray-painted

I have seen them

as the base for a cross

by a river

But most of the time

they are a canvas

for the sun’s fluctuating mood

a mappa mundi

a projector screen

on which faces like clouds

witness the passing of centuries

Like us

they sleep

and then all you can see

are the almond-shaped

indentations

of their closed eyes

and the narrow

moustaches

of their upturned mouths

When we sleep

our senses are momentarily

suspended

we cease to see and speak

(to pass judgement)

we become

the base for a cross

a stepping stone

dappled light

our own memory

Blanched stone

An expression

for others to interpret

We are defined

(we define ourselves)

We are spoken

(we do not speak ourselves)

We take our place

in the dictionary

the richest lexicographical

resource

in the history of the universe

Verb, noun, adjective

What we did

what we did it to

what it was like

A chosen few

are prepositions

otherwise language

cannot position itself

At the end of it all

we will sing a chorus

in which matter

is black ink

light the parchment

and only those who loved

will be able

to hear it

Jonathan Dunne

Ostritsa-Selimitsa, Pentecost 2024