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when the ships are dark scattering broad backs from the thunder the lighthouse keeper comes home from the ocean trailing its stars an icy hand tight on the back door to untie stringed fingers weightless in organdy
of the heavens there remains a dry stone wall where the aspen storm stretches downwards and narrow paths lift wheels into hollows ending with roads in God’s truth everything slept but the deep chasing the deep beyond winter the last tree etched against a mountainside giving in silence at each exhalation
he had not yet been touched by your eyes (a gleam on them, falling open to hunters) while age crackled in his crooked, wooden fingers unravelling thoughts and knotting veins
remembering Hypatia flayed alive in the libraries of Alexandria he swims on the surface where there are no mysteries not among the gentle, but summoned taking deep breaths among morning’s white columns swept off course by the voyage night tangled in rigging and sail he is counted among the stars where sun and rain sound through twisted timbers set out with many voices
ocean, since my time began I have troubled your waters returning home
I know the sea flows through every man I am no different, only raised up and cast afloat before your eyes on my observation ship The Bulldog waiting for slack water in the pits of the sea where the moon, curled as if unborn, pushes until her waters break along the shore
in the night I saw your open hand then in its place a presentiment of sleep and sitting in my father’s lap I winked playfully up at the round face of the sun
my father was a quiet man dressed eloquently in thought he rose listening intently and put on his wings where once he heard the siren singing but listen again: here at my breast and beneath my feet the sea is coming, a murmur among the rocks where language is the fossil of the thought and my flint an intimation of death in the dry hands of a conqueror
by my charts, two thousand years ago twelve men reached a burning city speaking in tongues until the dead lay radiant they crossed the sea with a pack of wolves windblown and predatory above the night-woven fishes then in the spring of ’42 in waters chilled by the beam of a searchlight they recorded glacial cold in the shallow zones and shrieks and moans in the abyss of Winter hydrophones screened out the sound of ships that swept onto shore to kill by cold bodies shivered and were borne up on the beach a million foundered and were broken with snowflakes curled in their burnt eyelashes and Thom Gunn high on Sumburgh Head noted the names and, leaving, said: "Run out the cable, fear is coming like a sleepwalker to the bidding of the dead"
the long, slim fish that Jim and all caught with beautiful uncertainty: turning, Jim said something to the early morning light and waited for manhood to harden his face while I, untying lovers’ knots, tinder-box painted a sunset with the sparks of stars my sense of wonder tempered and reconciled until I stood with a porthole framing my face and found sunlight in the pale butterflies
the eternal lost swimmer is leaving I hardly heard him go bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers stepping and stopping quietly as he spoke he jumped off in the midst of the sea "I shall leave with the rest," he said "now that I see you gather certainty about yourself, that you are yourself forever"
so good luck, old man, in the gathering of the waters where words are but soundings in the breaking of a wave yes good luck, old man, for now begins the downward swing, measurable only in decades good luck, old man: tread lightly on the dead land, for in all lands we sense the former presence of the sea (a breeze gathered my papers, although the wind was light from the news concerning it)
night enters the sea rolling all ablaze, to all that is darkness bringing light
shall we go satellite tracking on Chesapeake Bay, where shadow kisses shadow at the mountain’s foot? shall we go satellite tracking on Chesapeake Bay, where shadows mark the depths but cannot touch, like mariners lost on a lacuna of forgetting? I am guided by light to whatever brings light believing the joy of darkness is the flame that breaks it I touch the wings of angels in a world without God where the quest for beauty is the search for imperfection
great stood the sea behind him, waves fearless pressed the stern
these are the dreams that are lost on waking these are the dreams that are lost these are the dreams forgotten in sleeping these are the dreams that are lost. |
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her long gown a presage musty and eternal where childhood hides like a thief of lilies and stars melodies of footprints climb through the snow to old songs he covered on journeys homeward calling the echo from a tiger-arched bridge (where lanterns slide across black water) he forges a coin of quickest silver wish upon wish to the mother of song.
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when silence itself commanded all the mountains they burned the growing fields communicating by signs, drawing attention to things inanimate… track 1-0-9, all my stars are out tonight
tin lantern railroad, bend my humble back and run to cinders, sleeping
Dear --- I won’t apologise for not having written 7 degrees west Jonah is every evening alone splintering against the shipside a stateroom to himself to do the people’s work the last curling lock forbids him to honour the place, its only passenger and so I walk the way for him ten thousand miles for a significant kiss Bethlehem milepost six or seven: your sign is the slab-grey morning lying brilliant and bled
the delicate, slick-oiled and rusted engineer picked up this kid and kissed him late on the lips then tenderly between brow-bone and cheek they lay there sleeping in the minds of men in the engine-black night a dream of a dream this will be ours to keep and the dead railroad a deep hole in propositioned sleep he picked up this kid one-ninety to the dollar by 3am he’s counting time, his dry hands forgetting the famous watermark
and bone by bone the watchman’s solitude rues the money spent on working shoes while lost boys ride the red caboose testing the speed of the brakeman
tin lantern railroad, bend my humble back and run to cinders, sleeping
4am, chronicles: October in the pool hall the memories of a poker player who looked down on good fortune with paralysed fingers; toothless and elegant, by day unknown, his bag lies heavy in Idaho he bent and muttered and wired the union for a dollar his red eyes on the telegraph road where the endless find identical expression "He defeated me, he robbed me: him with his shadow laid to rest at the crossing"
the train whistles (your correspondent writes) and smoke plumes from the land where he was a child tin stars chiming in the windows, a delicate universe but how long is the night, smouldering in the eyes of a man who troubles himself forsaking home and fire for all that may darken him, wherein he must burn?
sorrow, the cause of sorrow, the end of sorrow and the end of sorrow Bethlehem lit by the back doors open rain in the gasoline So many games lost for a few stolen kisses seeing me complicated in a Third Street alley he defeated me, he robbed me: him with his shadow laid to rest at the crossing: the man whose hand was controlled
above a morning come with oil lamp burning Jack Frost welcomed the lightning to a rusty moon in a tinder sky track 1-0-9 bend my humble back and run to cinders, sleeping
will I inherit distinction like a king? (choosing an heir in front of the mirror) so heavy the earth sorrow, the cause of sorrow the end of sorrow and the end of sorrow will I inherit the earth?
my train rises on a burning field as I lay this before you, my particular friend for when you smiled my flame swirled up to your every breath and Summer came a scarlet emperor to court upon a wounded wing I was too proud for unarguable truth or voices that laughed with God their witness but I would love you even if darkness only were your face until my eyes were filled with sleeping
watch: a man is not on the path in violent haste a man is not called wise but he was sleeping when I found him a man is not old by fine words in vain; think of him for he will climb and thus fall to the world that surrounds him where the darkest part of the sky is the bluest
oh, say it to him, please tell him that you love him for this is the life of those who live this is the life of those but he is above sorrow. XXXXX
(dedicated to Ian Preston) |
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if your foreign correspondent could locate the stars above cities he would count them for you gently, as if in love so how can you say he does not love? when he would lie across an ocean holding your ship afloat beneath a clamour of gulls
where twilight hangs from a lamp post an old, distempered raincoat he would wear it for you darkling among the moths that alight and fall open so how can you say he does not love? how can you say it? his message may come from afar, from satellites lost in former kingdoms but he still sends it for you.
(dedicated to Paren) |
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track of the haunted, I ran a thousand miles in my sleep with a passport half open like tiny wings trapped on the high Central
15 degrees east Sam Philips crosses the road to Nashua all dressed up and not any more left a stone abandoned by railroad sleepers always he dreamed of you at a train door in the great, spectral night happy in love’s boyhood
at a piano he sits rearranged nominated by the moon his noisy, wooden hands a flight of birds where Icarus tumbled to the sea but still the Wild One dozes at peace in his bike-thin frame to hear Radio City slipping away
a Crown Electric Company truck pulls up on Old Saltillo Road where the earth runs endless from the fear of water and Ulysses watched stars cover the rooftops wheeling thirty miles into the songless hills enter Elvis, beautiful sapphist talking softly to the broken horses oh, she dreams of setting them free to the great American desert setting the broken free to the cactus cities and wilderness beyond Shakerag
requesting a tune with her lazy hand Elvis sings into Main Street of jello, liquor and the Frisco union flat-top falling over a four-dollar microphone eyes fixed on sweetness beyond Tupelo where the pylons left her with a lonely face
stiffened and unrolled the bitches stir as Elvis leans back cool and important buried deep as a Catholic, lips resting on silver, a small rosary of memories still occupies her hands that’s alright, Mama her finger inscribed with the idea of a ring
from coast to coat scent of the sea threadbare among the hausers every note hands buoyant from the singer’s hips until the air awakens with song fluttering with the sweetness of sleep and its voices setting the broken free to the cactus cities and wilderness beyond Shakerag. |
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the universe rumbles over Vauxhall Tavern illuminating boys on the verge of things watching cloud cover cloud where no-one has seen them until solitude, eyeless, hides the stars with its wings voices revolving on the edge of airwaves find taxis idling in Seven Dials while the accidental Londoner lives for distraction turning a trick on the Circle Line there is silence enshrined in Old Compton Street’s heart as he leans on the wind, fumbling for a key the Aztec escalator at Camden Town leads him to sacrifice all on the bloody streets here a girl stares with fear in her stride at a queen undone by indiscretion men shout with laughter, throwing arms ’round each other jostling to beat the slow procession you kiss him in the stillest hour beneath the portals of Christ, Scientist then picked up and gently thrown together by the photographic wind across Hungerford Bridge but your names will join unbroken by Elephant and Castle in the crooked air ’til a scat-queen smacked out at Cambridge Circus says "Please to help the Croatians there" Come, says Pablo, in a low voice descending poppers, ketamine, uppers and E we are halfway to Heaven it’s time we were laughing in the rhythm of urine where the air-vents meet thinking There but for the grace of Prada goes God the accidental Londoner is never alone siempre te amare in Hampstead and Clapham with Pablo asleep on the night bus home. |
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the gambler feels lucky tonight nerve beating like a rabbit’s foot he could recognise a king from his back as you and I would an old friend he returns lost at the casino to pull up his chips and drop them singly in a pile rattling icecubes in a dead tumbler
first the road untravelled then the road somewhere then only the roads [searching for networks: please wait]
he crossed a continent to Antwerp station a rusty terminus in a pre-war photograph to find Europe where the cars slide backwards on neo-classical highways and atomic clocks display unimaginable violence with a book asleep on his knee
this is me: on the beach this is me: near the ice museum this is me: at the Hotel Intercontinental this is me: by a most historic doorway I think it was Milan I really can’t recall… but I remember taking the photograph of first the road untravelled then the road somewhere then only the roads [searching for networks: please wait]
@sargasso.com the gambler, star-fingered, deals absently with fragments of night struggling to belong to his long-extinct father whose small, gaunt image rests above the bed – but being dead they let a man alone? – in the on/off romance of the pharmacie sign he finds a cigarette between his lips, flaring minutely
spilt-ink Thames where blizzards approach through the snow Walker, prickly as water baby, maps The Cut with untraceable footsteps and pauses beneath constellations from Soho to Sogo
My good friend, can it be so long since last I wrote? (sky: early Spring, clear blue, distant trees not yet in leaf)
W-W-Wherewith to know whither covered in stars, full of rain, coat rent-heavy with the scent of gin Jesus, Jesus and my nostrils black is this how it starts? get her, get her so many options – what is it that I don’t want?
he had walked miles through the sound of bells before he came to the great silence of the cathedral climbing the steps he peeled off his spectacles and blinked happily at the man whose fingers hummed like dragonflies about a gently nestled violin Did you love me? he wondered when France lay propped on an elbow and England sat and watched the sea oh, the light Summer dresses they circled and bobbed and the hummingbird embroidered a kiss in the lily
this is me on the beach where the sand held my feet in its two wet palms
your foreign correspondent is leaving to return again by morning white sheets beating at a window without starlight so many worlds he stands for things that are to be destroyed (these spectacles, this violin) but with a childish petulance whose light could not make beautiful any prodigal gifts – these temporary gifts, these gifts from time
remember him: from first the road untravelled and then the road somewhere then only the roads the dead, endless roads [searching for networks: please wait please… wait please…… wait] he is out there now,
if only you could see him. |
The above poems are © copyright Christopher Rye 1999. They may not be copied or reproduced in part or in total without prior permission of the author. E-mail Christopher Rye at: lunar@zoom.co.ukPlease leave your name and any comments in our Guestbook:
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