simonhlilly

DEAR WRITER
( for N.F.)

One book and its many reflections.
Mitosis ( or meiosis, never could remember
which was halving, which replicating,
and anyway….).
Settling with a partial view
or staggering under the weight of clever alternatives,
or maybe both.

A tale of simple folk
(is a tale of those we have never met).
A dissection of whys, a declaration
of Independence ( one eyebrow raised at that),
self examination and a tiresome topography of ,
a tying up in pretty-well untiable
( untyable? Untieable?) well,
there it is, endless viewpoints,
unequivocably equal in unlikelihood.

A bedtime story with copious footnotes
and referencing.
A paradox: to whom do you speak
(so eloquent, so verbose, such colours, such emoting),
and whose voice, and why, why should we listen at all
with all our own congregations and nowhere near,
no nowhere near, our own silences….

But, but, if the voice is urging,
if the river flows rambling sounds,
let us be its humble servant.
We cannot guess the weight
and landing of any word,
what it might feed, what slaughter.
We cannot guess if any purpose pushes us
(but can you not ever feel the thousand thousand
thousands from the past thirsting for,
not ever balk at the rigid arrogance of the present,
questioning the need to listen at all,
too busy, too rushed.

Sitting still a curious sin, dubious, up to no good.
Too smart to get carried away,
too smart to get caught out by fairies
and their fabricated gold
(hoist, as it were, as we ever are, as the big man said)…..

so rave on, rave on, regardless,
regarding all, a dutiful sun,
a brightness, a causation of shadows,
a dreamer of delicious confusions,
a surgeon of intents,
a mycologist of hidden fruits,
a wriggling squirm of human.
Dust singing.

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