From Word To Word

This poem is one of the forms that my obsession with the threshold has taken over the years.  It began with a file of quotations on the idea of the threshold.  It then became a sort of experimental prose piece that was comprised more of these quotations than my own words.  Both of these pieces still exist, and I am still working on them, more or less, but neither will see a finished form any time soon.

I only began working on this current form of the project when my brother Andrew asked me to write a spoken word piece to be read over some music for a concept album that he is writing.  I have never written for music or for a specific time length before, and I have seldom tried to turn prose into poetry either.  I am still not entirely happy with the result, and I still have to reduce it by something like thirty seconds, so any suggestions would be welcomed.

Also, because of how it came to be, this particular poem borrows, even plagiarizes, from any number of authors.  It has gone through so many iterations that I am no longer even able to list them all with any certainty, but I know at least that I am drawing text from Alexandre Dumas, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Martin Hiedegger, Annie Dillard, Jacques Derrida, Leon Rooke, Emmanuel Levinas, Robert Graves, and Maurice Blanchot.  If there are others I have missed, they have my sincere apologies.

On the Scaffold

Where I have fallen, my eyes can feel the bruises in the door,
and the flecks of paint that have escaped the remover,
and the grain,
and the varnish,
and deeper too, to its cutting edge,
the edge that has cut me from myself like a guillotine cuts a head from a body.

I am waiting,
waiting for the blade to be hoisted again,
to fall again,
to cut me again,
through skin and muscle and vein and throat and bone,
to spill my blood again on the scaffold,
again on the threshold.

I am bleeding myself empty,
covering the floor,
the threshold,
all of it,
in my blood.

This door,
with the bruises and the flecks of paint,
my door,
its blow is true.
It bereaves me of myself.
There is no escaping it.
It is always a guillotine,
a mandaia,
a sharpened and a dividing blade.
It makes the threshold an altar stone.

I am there
on the altar, the scaffold,
before the blow I cannot escape,
seeing everything with extraordinary distinctness,
passing through the moments as if they were an infinite time,
a vast wealth of time,
an endless time left to live,
an infinity on the scaffold,
on the doorstep,
where every moment is an age,
where I feel the obligation of counting,
every minute,
as it passes,
of not missing
one.

Surely this is the place of epiphany,
this infinite moment.
I wait,
and tremble,
and know,
stretched on the block,
and suddenly hear above me the clang of the iron,
the clang that I must hear,
that I am sure to hear,
the clang for which I will listen purposefully,
though it takes only the tenth part of a second.

I am face down,
tasting the earth,
eavesdropping on the blade and the whetstone whispering to one another.
This waiting,
this moment,
this minute,
is forever real,
as real as death and eternity,
a moment and a sound that no longer belong to their time.

It is this sound for which I listen continually,
again and again,
with the closing of each door behind me,
because it bears the consolation
of no longer having to live in the shadow of death,
in the infinite time that approaches death.

It consoles,
because my greatest fear is not that I will die,
but that I will live,
that I will be reprieved,
that I will endure the agony of a falling blade that will never fall,
that I will be condemned,
not to death,
but to life,
one infinite moment following another,
in the shadow of the death that never came,
the blade that never fell,
the door that never closed.

It is not death that is intolerable.
What is intolerable is that I might be robbed of death,
that I might not take it in my arms,
savour a last breath on its lips.

Yet, there is a greater fear,
that the blade will fall,
but that I will nevertheless survive it,
even if only for a moment,
to know that it has fallen,
to know,
for a second,
or for five seconds,
or for an eternity,
cut from life and from self,
but counting out the moments of eternity,
counting the beats,
the bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
and to know that living with the living is no longer enough,
that now it is also necessary to live with the dead,
to know that death that will not let me die,
but will leave me waiting always for a further death,
where drops of blood count the passing of time,
until I must die once more,
again
and again,
for the door always remains to be entered,
and the threshold always remains to be crossed,
and the death always remains to be suffered,
however often it is suffered.

I will always be among the poor dying that are going from threshold to threshold,
because nobody goes beyond the threshold,
except by madness.

I die continually.
I die always, and every time alone,
because no one can die this death with me,
because there will never be anyone who can bear my lonely death with me,
because my death is in every case mine.

Yet even so,
my own death is not only for myself,
but also for those who are witnesses to it.
It is for the crowd who will see it only as a carnival,
for those few who will see it for the first time in horror,
for those fewer who saw it once with horror,
then with indifference,
and now with curiosity.

My death is for these others.
I am responsible to them
and for the deaths that they will die,
though each of us dies alone,
and so I will endure the aloneness
of the scaffold and the falling blade,
of the threshold and the closing door,
because the spectacle of my death,
of the blow that I cannot escape,
do not wish to escape,
which I anticipate,
am always anticipating again,
this spectacle makes me responsible for those who witness it.

In this moment,
only in this moment,
death tears off the mask of life,
and the true face is revealed,
and the severed head is held above the gathered crowd,
still warm,
so that they may recognize themselves in it,
my see their death in mine,
bloody and severed,
held before them.

This is the only place where the fear of death becomes a salvation.

This place,
this threshold,
is always hard,
always stony,
because it bears the doorway,
because it sustains the middle in which the two,
the outside and the inside,
penetrate each other.
This threshold bears the between,
and pain has petrified it.
Pain has made the threshold stone,
and I must cross this place,
pass and surpass it,
the last instant of my own life,
a life that will have been,
in any case,
so short.

I like words best when they do not pretend to be adequate, though this means that I am not often a fan of my own writing. This is why I write poetry, I think, to let my words be inadequate, as much as I am able.

In Hesitation

The day hesitates, draws a lover’s breath,
A gasp, poised and waiting, on pleasure’s edge,
And lifts its face to the still coming rain,
To the long-promised rain, coming, still to come,
And it waits, the day, it waits and expects
A dampness on its cheeks, like sudden tears
That wash the stone feet of the door, that kiss
And betray the touch of the threshold’s lips,
And all things come to be, here, in this breath
And in this hesitation, here, alone,
In this gasp that offers and withholds them,
Like a true gift, ungiven, unreceived,
To a lover, whose pleasure comes to be,
But only in the breath that makes it wait.

The poem never produces the experience of poetry.  The poem is only ever produced by such an experience.  When I experience poetry while reading the poem, I do not experience the poetry of the poem that I am reading.  I experience the poetry of the poem that needs to be written through me.  In this way, poem calls to poem, poetry to poetry, however poorly I may accomplish the poem that is required of me.

Through Unmarked Time

She paused on the topmost stair, wonderingly,
as if she had found, without expectation,
a place preordained for her,
and the sun dappling through the cedars,
and the lake breeze stirring her clothing,
seemed to welcome her like a long expected mistress,
and she turned back toward the sun,
eyes closed and face lifted,
innocent of the face also lifted to her,
the gaze that passed over her
like the sun and like the breeze,
and her pause grew to a waiting,
and his waiting to a stillness,
and the sun’s stillness to an eternity,
a caress through unmarked time.

I have not posted in some time because I have been at a seminar in Toronto, which has made for some long days.  When I go to Toronto, which I do only under compulsion, I leave very early to avoid the traffic.  I prefer to spend an extra hour or so in a cafe once I have arrived rather than spend even an extra fifteen minutes on the highway.  So, for the last three mornings, I have had the chance to write for more than an hour without interruption. It almost made the commute worth while.

Most of what I wrote was for other tasks that I need to accomplish, but I did take the time to write some poetry, which is one of the things that gives me much pleasure. Though I would not call myself a poet, and though I am almost always dissatisfied with what I write, I revel in the writing of poetry nevertheless. The piece that follows is the one that embarrasses me least of those I wrote these past few days.

Photographs
The photographs are level,
though the wainscotting is askew,
afloat on the wall.
Its straightness is immovable.
When all else melts,
Pictures hang like this,
on the void,
fixed,
like hard-edged moons,
like cornered memories,
exactly so,
petrified in the solid air,
for everything they touch is stone.

It has been suggested to me by several people that I should provide some context when I post poetry or creative prose pieces, so as not to surprise those who have become accustomed to my usual narrative voice.  The difficulty is that I most often choose to write in poetry precisely because I feel that my usual narrative voice is more than usually inadequate to the subject.  So, in the present case, I will only say that I have been reflecting on the problem of what we might call balance or moderation.  Either the poem will say the rest, or it will not.

To Touch the Earth and Sky
To touch the earth and sky with my desire
And grasp them, both, though torn between the two;
To stretch across a void I cannot fill
And be suspended by its emptiness;
To be a heretic formed to the rack,
And a thief dangling from a crucifix:
This is the condition of all worship.

Let there be words like frost on leaves,
Too tentative etchings that melt
As fingers pass, accumulate
In veins of leaves, and in creases
Of pages; let them dampen tips
On fingers, be touched onto tongues,
Tasting all of fragility
And liquidness; let them be moist
Breath in air, fingers of mist, fog
That leaves the air breathful, until
They caress the trees like lovers,
And cling again to leaves like frost.

This voice, a remnant and a harbinger,
Orphaned doubly, by its lineage
And by its inheritance, speaks nothing,
Nothing to be owned or guaranteed,
Assured or underwritten.  It is adrift
Between times, between unapproachable ends
And unrecoverable beginnings.

There is, through the window, a slender pine,
A shadow shape against a shadowed night,
A charcoal wick aflame with a hazed moon,
Pallid, flickering, and all adrift
Of the world, astride the pine’s upstretched peak,
The silhouetted ache of earth for sky.

I lay where the summer had surprised me,
beneath a tree, half lightning blasted, limbs
like roots burrowing into a blue, thin,
transparent soil, the trunk suspended there
above a green, impenetrable sky,
adrift between two heavens and two earths,
surrounded by long shadows, sun flung
and invisible, branches become roots
then cast, insubstantial, on earthen skies.

Breathe unuttered words through the night,
unspoken things less heard than felt,
like warm breath on a pillowed cheek,
hands brushing hands beneath linen,
the swelling of another’s sleep,
the silent and contented words
that rest about us in the dark,
like moonlight on a coverlet,
the singing of nocturnal things,
an arm beneath a lover’s head.