It has been four hours,
If the night falls it’s because it has no option but be
like there is nothing so certain at the end
certainty that we celebrate.
In the afternoon the solitude hurts me,
You are incapable
of hurting me anymore,
as you are gone,
to somewhere only you know.
Maybe your yurt,
Don’t tell me,
I can’t bear it.
I couldn’t see that coming,
but live it.
The world that I didn’t expect,
an empty one that I never thought of.
It has been eight months
passed without me noticing;
I was in the midst of torment,
and I’m still be.
“Everything we love is about to die, and that is why everything must be summed up with all the high emotion of farewell in something so beautiful we shell never forget it.” – Michel Leiris
Afternoon has been static,
Particles frozen, in the glance of existence.
Fly makes no sound,
Sunbeam cease to defuse.
As if no future is coming,
That universe is the end itself,
Clouds depart, emptying.
Left on me deserted sky, vast vacancy,
Much sorrow under the brilliant sunlight,
As if it cares nothing.
Leaves whispering gossip,
Millions accounts of the life and death
Of things that cross our mind missing.
Much was lost, things I forget,
But not that haunting thought.
Reminding me that I,
Under the Sunday afternoon, still a broken heart.
“Coelacanth, yes, God!
Although I had come prepared,
that first sight hit me like a white-hot blast.
It made me feel shaky and queer, my body tingled.
I stood if stricken to stone.
Yes, there was not a shadow of doubt:
scale by scale,
bone by bone,
fin by fin,
it was a true coelacanth.”
-J. L. B. Smith, Ichthyologist, on identifying the specimen of Coelacanth the first time in human history
It’s not clear whether J. L. B. Smith had an interest in literature and poetry, but this account is quiet poetic to me, in a sense that the sound of the words and the structure of the sentences captured the excitement in a very rich and delightful way. I’ll take it as a poem.
*Rhodes University ichthyologist Professor JLB Smith with a coelacanth in 1953.
Dance is, unknowing where boundaries are supposed to be but testing, pouring the plasma and watching where it goes; consciously formulating your steps without committing to a direction.
It’s murmuring with limited vocabulary, uttering the sound that’s familiar while making it exotic, vomiting when you don’t necessarily have to, just to sense the warmth in that narrow path between your lungs.
Dance is, instead of turning your language into music, turning the music into your language.
Lays the sun
Drunk the feet
Point the toes to the swamp
Let grasses bite you
in the freshly opened summer