Dirty Gerty's Hurdy Gurdy


Only the poem knows what's true

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Je Suis Hante

That art conflicts what I relent- and any form congregates- the havoc from its myth, beauty is an imitation, broken from itself; and not so much inside a mirror, but to delegate an atmosphere, where form becomes its absence; that death is not its remedy, until nothing is unreal; and every expression an interlude, receded from its symbol; in Je Suis Hante, I provoke a tension; my heroine - for her aesthetic- conflicts amnesia, when even madness, interprets its neglect; is there no divinity to confirm, when every instinct she adheres, resolves my formlessness? To speak without her tyranny, I vacate her relapse; the posit of art, too episodic, not to toil me; the following is of she- to address herself- I am the relic, her myth cannot commit:

Her petals cannot fold the wind;
A basin empties from the moon-
In tears of ash and porcelain
And purple reeds that shift too soon
That Lethe stir their memory-
The hemlock fastening its plume
Too quaint without her heraldry; 
There was no crest the rose outgrew:
The Corona Borealis
The Coventry its ash withdrew;
Salome writhes her stiffened cheek,
To narrate ghosts she can't exhume;
She fears her dance to fear her blood
Embalmed in stars and broken tombs
The silver cliffs she can't erode;
The azure of their swollen womb,
A shadow that would fasten clay,
A mirror emptied and entombed;
She is not young when winter sleeps-
The frost that wilts as if to bloom
A garden buried from itself-
The amaranth her ghost renewed:
Why sleep and not resisting bows,
 When beauty is an interlude?
The wood corroded from her sword,
The opal pasture of its wound.