The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Sarah Bonifacio DANCE OF A DIALECTIC The instant of decision is madness. Kierkegaard
Just as the river where I step is not the same, and is, so I am as I am not. Heraclitus of decision is madness of end, no end saving that in transition; no end saving that preceding transition; no end, in turn, that never at once is beginning or is. Yet what then of ruptures of breath, the word's death-instant? We are as we aren't, the waters sing: First this, now this; first this, now this . . . Stepped in if stepped out of, never the same. THE MINOAN JAR after a terracotta jar with three handles, ca. 1600-1800 B.C., from Schliemann's collection, Metropolitan Museum of Art Encased without a heart, without a story, the Minoan jar survives. My eyes begin at the surface of its figure: silent waves of an ash-ocean that revolve without end, without feeling, to the might of its own design. I want its life of warm unknowing: No past existed for the Minoans. No past could. After their earth's betrayal, after their earth's wrath--an eruption from which the Minoans, armed with delicacy, had not recovered-- no self, stunted, could they injure more through stark reflection. No self but art endured: the pattern on this jar, entrancing my eyes to an illusion of peace. So be it. Let this death-jar bellow for all. Let it, like the frescoes of dolphins and pink leaping bulls that garland the walls of the sea- palace in Knossos, shine forth and delude me. Though it is rumored the Minoans devoured each other, or would sacrifice offspring by burning, who am I to be revolted? Accept, accept the ash-waves of their sea, an eternally winter-water; and the darker, loose petals and leaves that hover above it-- star-like fixities which the Minoans, in their secret boldness, embraced and understood. A fire occurred, and was all. Why return from it? Why tear off their soot-cloaks and weep? No, I hear them. Once, they were joyous. Once, they were free, free; the earth pressed them close to the hymns of her heart. Once, once. And not again, for time is no elixir. THE CHARGE Woman, where are your accusers? Has no man condemned you? John 8:10 This bone through the heart-- is it possible, such an ache? In the dark I take your hand and hold it there, hold it where the bone lives, a loose tent of skin swelling thinly its wish to be torn. Sensing maybe that yes, this pain is pure--thus beautiful, as is said, after all. If I think hard, feel hard, I'll dream the bone is a lote-tree's thorn, or a blade heroic, or purer yet, a stone--yes, that. Yes, lend me your temple. Press hard. Hear it? A stone, the first one cast, and always my own. THE AUGUST TREE There's a tree behind my house, firm and dead. I hear it this moment, speaking nothing. It seems to shake the spindles off its head, but then I know that's just the wind working. A branch without color bends close to me, brushes the window where I place my hand; it stiffens everything, this garden-greed-- under the fat of ivy, the trunk stands sapped. Still, the tree glints through the deep afternoon: Wisdom and brilliance, wisdom and brilliance. It's what was rooted here, what grew and grew; it's what a driver would see in the distance: Death as an oak, mute and grizzled and proud; in time, in time, I should have it cut down. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |