The Triumphant Note
Did you read the triumphant note I left you?
About white fields, small fox carcasses and the child who played the horn?
I told you of lightening rods that stood at attention
Like the trees in fields remembering the forrests of their youths
Standing to look out, standing to search, waiting for them to return
There was mention of windows and us
Window sills are the great shelves in our lives
Holding the frailest of life's living beauty and then waiting for us to lean from their frames
They are living canvases with the gallery closing when the shutters are closed
On the bed dead moths fall
In Russia people are trying to justify the movements from three decades ago
Is history a form of blanket to keep warm with?
Is poetry a grave to fall face down in?
And somewhere the mildest of men is watering down his steps
Wondering why church pews must be so ornate
And so hard
The wind brings his fringe up and for a second he looks like neither his mother or is father
A human and monster
God does not recognise him
He is his own creation for a never ending second that does not exist
And the water, as it falls, reminds the boy with an erection of treacle
It is the sound of the word 'treacle' that is the sound the water makes
As it falls from sky, to roof, to gutter, to ground
At some point the music makes a word and the boys mind wonders from flesh to food
His erection is lost to age and he looks back on this day when he hears the rain in old age
His father gave him a gun, a pistol, as a boy
He had never smiled so hard his mother cried
His brother had died at war, hanged from a tree for being a nuisance
For being a philosopher, a coward, and a killer
To be all three, as well as a frenchman leaves you with a ribbon around the neck
And a crown of laurel leaves
The sea it rose and it rose and it rose and a ship was built by a band of women
They do not want any men on this ship
They forgot to remember any riddles or jokes or good tales and quickly grew bored
They turn to writing bawdy poems
And to relieve themselves they use the most beautiful creature on board, the horse with its horn
It was dead within the week
Was the most beautiful bulding you have ever seen a church with its drenched spires and coughing whispers?
Or was it perhaps the library, cold, and full of boys reading books on law and an artist's portrayals of rounded and beautiful breasts
You are the only colour in my autumn that is worth seeing
And the flowers that are moved by your glance all become hysteric
They are beautiful, all nature is, your face is
And I remember the golden sunshine,
I remember the trees with their ancient dust
I remember the rocks that I sat upon
And I became mute with the size of largest world I ever did know
Here is my poetry
Here are my words
And I care for you
I care for you because I want to be delirious
You are my eagle
And Olympia can not be too far away
You are the only colour in my autumn that is worth seeing
And the flowers that are moved by your glance all become hysteric
They are beautiful, all nature is, your face is
And I remember the golden sunshine,
I remember the trees with their ancient dust
I remember the rocks that I sat upon
And I became mute with the size of largest world I ever did know
Here is my poetry
Here are my words
And I care for you
I care for you because I want to be delirious
You are my eagle
And Olympia can not be too far away
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