 |
Because to be this grass, on this hill, in the middle of the earth, in the indecisive reverberation of odes, music like tenderness, like rain, forgiveness like waterfall, like pain. You are never brought to the surface, where are the colors and the fascination of lights. Freshness. Tomorrow, mountains are maybe no longer giants, and are not made into anything, and there would no longer be the rain. The various curves, of mountains, not giants, plays endlessly, waving and waving, not thinking of giants, emotional, the eclectic. You would be late, she says, if you were waiting always for giants, for them. The hour did not arrive, and tomorrow, if there is no one waiting, by the road, if there is no one around, except I, then I would be all alone, in this hour, of light and images. I see, I see, that I was larger than him, and more powerful, that I cried tears more joyous than him, in this house, in this life. That I was more suffering, that I was more ecstatic with music, than ever before. That I hope, and was broken, again and again. Then I would no longer restrain myself, and would no longer be alone, like the rose, like the music that is played, in all the mountains, in all my world. The heart, free. And the bird that is higher, disappears, into the deep sky. At sunset, across the river, voices and voices, the late rose would not bloom. Lately, with a deeper sense, a lower voice, the mountain has not been able to speak, with a voice so deep as the rain, with a mind so full of colors, to be not be able to, say a word. Then we would be talked of, the mountain thinks, to himself, the giant thinks, immovable, the cumberous voices, the dusk, imitating shadow. Lower, lower, the sound falls, and then there are no things of which to pick up, to breeze over, forever the echo says father, father, my father. I could not think of a deeper line, that goes on, forever. By the road next to the mountain, my all alone hope, is of something still there, some childishness, or something old with age. There is nothing on the mountain that does not wish, wind, or free. Despite all the wreckage, of human hands and human multitudes, human shoulders and inhuman time, inhuman night falls, to the indifference, to the vast indifference… And there is no one there to save me, I thought. Amidst the mountain, the giant. I wish someone would be with me, because I was born to everything, to everything, and then there was the wind… How hollow do I feel, how drunk I am, with everything that is possible, with all that which is happening, right now, the feeling, the reservoir of my heart… And the sound of the sea, in the distance, lashing and lashing, broken and broken, the sound that likes music, unbelievable, in movements, of everything, beneath the darkness. The slumbering giant wakes, again, moves so that all the birds, all the birds, and all the trees, could breathe, a sigh, miraculous, a miracle to be held, in the heart, in the hand, in the depths of my silence… Because some mountains are giants to everything, so that I won't speak, so there is nothing to think of, nothing to remember. My memories of the past is perhaps beautiful, but I won't know, I won't remember because of the voices, dying and dying… Inestimable flow, of mountains large beyond the city, of rivers that flow, forever like the song, that says, there is nothing left to be recovered, that everything is lost, everything is lost, in the whorl of the distance, the night, everything is sleeping, its eternal sleep. The poet is dreaming, his continuous dreams, and the wind is outside, in the distance, lashing and lashing, howling and howling, and there is a sense that there is no tomorrow, no yesterday, only an illusion, of today… My mother says, that always always always, she will be by my side, always. I have not forgotten her, in the aura of the rain, in the coldness, that I shiver, that I desire. My love, and her many contours, will never speak to me, again, no matter how much I wonder, or say. The words inevitable, unknowable, so many undiscovered words to search out, in the limitless distance, words, hour, hour, hour… Our mountains, breathing, the expanse, unknowable, so many valleys as to drink up my desire, my past stories told and told, nothing unknowable, everything known… As to bring up to the height of the mountains, the reach of the grass, the everything of whether or not, you are the river… As the river flows and flows, beneath the mountains, beneath the ever-expanding meadow, grass that grows, any day, anywhere, the dream that grows, anywhere, the trees that grow, anywhere, and the endlessness of the wind, the waves of the ocean far away, the smell of the sea, endless and reverberant, the music that has no ears, no listening, insatiable music, of the ocean, the sea, the air, the loom of silence, on the ocean floor… On the floor of my being, the level surface where there are a thousand flowers, a million petals multiply, the sound multiplies, a million sensations brought to the surface, conceivable, things said and unsaid, heard and unheard, the giant on the edge of my dreams, floating off, the lion of my embrace, far-off, inconceivable… The dreams that the mountain wrought, the things he says, the stories he told, are nothing compared to the spread of the morning phoenix, that no one sees, that no one notices, except the mountain… He that is the night, inconquerable, with the silence, beneath the storm, while rain falls, on the mountaintops, while the sun rises, over the landscape. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, we will have friends to come over to our mornings, our days, tomorrow, there is no imagination of what we will be, the darknesses are nothing compared to the grass, eternal, the rhythm of the grass, as it dances… Spoken words were nothing, dances, my mother, if it could be the model of my vision, my overall pain, but it says nothing about the valleys, the pools of water that collect, any hawks, snakes, worms. But the mountain, so vast, to think that it was always there, that the giant was always there, broken, helpless, free… He slept to the sound of the rain, and his vastness wasn't everything, and his roar wasn't everything, and in the reach of the mountain, in the depths was the echo of echoes, echoing and echoing… Later, forests seem to multiply, everywhere, on the distant shore, and Oh, if I could be a giant, with fervor, I, I would lift up that shore, and break the sea, just to say how many places of water are there, are there, how different, how profound, and reaches, were nothing of the imagination, and deserts, played later, played warmer, than most other distant places, were invisible, were not found. Because giants pretending to be mountains, anyway, and Oh, giants, Oh, mountains, if I could speak to them I would say everything about how they are, how small I am, a child; to be above everything, looking down at the rain; and how glorious that was, to be that vast, to be that vast, that vast, that vast, that vast… And at those moments I remember a song, of some child's voice, singing, of giants who were mountains, of their existence, in the loneliness of the past. October, October, October… The
October of my life, October, October, October, the winter of
my heart. October, October, October, the lives of yesteryear…
October, October, October… October, October, October…
Kevin Wu © 2009 Kevin lives in Carmichael, California, and holds a MFA from Brown University. His is now at work on a novel about the darkness and suffering of humanity. He also has a book of stories entitled "Lift" and is looking for a publisher. He has published stories in Kartika Review, Issues Magazine, and Visions Magazine. He is currently reading Ulysses by James Joyce as well as the entire Cantos of Ezra Pound and is looking for more contemporary books to read. Send Kevin a message using the Word Catalyst feedback form. |
||||
|
|
||||
  |