Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

Archive

Volume 5 Number 1, April 2004

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Cycle of the Wolf

by

Michael Larrass

                                                Introit

                                                 Sweet flesh of love

Passion’s dark liver

I sink my teeth

into your gushing agony

the purple radiance

of your blood’s convulsion

Beyond the gates of pain

your life pours out

into a space

of cooler ecstasy

Suburbian Dog

I know you are awake.

That pronounced breathing

ever now and then means

you hear me listening.

This watch began so many years ago.

I never realized that first time

that our game was not over.

Crossing the border into this land of yours

always costs a fortune.

However, I still think

I am convinced

that you are innocent.

.

Sleep, dear.

I’ll try to focus on that spark of tenderness,

on my hesitant smile.

You would not understand anyway

why this dog’s metallic bark

ringing through this suburb neighbourhood

disturbs me so deeply.
    

                            Sudden Fall

Your words

set me afire

like frost

in fall

maple leaves

Synthax Error

Faint flash of terror

in the black space of your eye

obstructs my inner vision.

Unfathomable edge of cruelty

makes it difficult to locate

your exact whereabouts

between myself and eternity.

I like to think that somewhere,

words and authentic sensation converge

towards their definite unity.

Tenderness

This litle vein

ticking on your throat

like the shifting hour

was all I could have hoped for

after my voyage

beyond the gates

of sensation.

                                            Seeing her again on Key West

So many hands have stroked your hair

therein tears like starwords

scintillate like treasures of the mind.

On darker strands of tragedy

Spring blossoms bloom,

smiles to the ignorant man,

the only suitor

capable of going beyond

the self-consciously smiling earnestness.

Would he appreciate the simple ivory combs of irony

among those heavy braids?

I would have loved to see you with

your hair loose upon your virgin shoulders.

But this intricate lacework is beautiful, too.

Maybe, later in the night

I’ll add a braid myself.

Unless, of course, you want to talk of fashion.

                                                        Cap Griz Nez

This country is a very peaceful one.

There is nothing surprising in the slow rise of poplars

behind the thick corn field,

nor in the green and brown sloping of hills towards their likenesses,

nor in the cows‘ and the clouds‘ imperceptible shifting through the thinning orchard, along the glistening country road

                        petering out

                                    among the

                                                fields.

                                                            Behind the sloe hedge,

suddenly

                                                            the land drops

from my sight.

                                                Wind rustles moistly the grass on the cliffs,

                                                brings gusts of gull cries and muffled sounds.

                                                These things were said so many times before.

                                                            There is no claim to be unique.

                                                                        And yet,

                                                could all the thin white brow line

                                                wafting along the shore of my perception

                                                turn into purple awareness,

                                                I would sacrifice you

                                                with the most meaningful gestures and words,

                                                the body of your absence

                                                wrapped in the linnen of memory

                                                bedded high on a pyre of crimson and salt.

Breaking the spell

The massive movement

of the stars

give my orbit

around you

the proper

proportions.

Nocturne at Aurel

You may not recognize my light

sung by someone who knew me by night.

I veil my colours to the stray man’s sight.

But to him who abides by the full moon’s light

I disclose the emerald passion of black

and the crimson solitude of white.

At the goatherd’s cottage

no window, no bark.

Dark distills silver

from the dark.

Farewell

When all the words had died away,

silently began

the soft throbbing of your name

like a more inward heart.

Your hands were islands of tenderness

in an ocean of chill

your presence had created

according to my desire

which was not mine.

Adult era

Let there be sadness in our breath

so suddenly united,

for death has parted us.

You knew it well and so did I.

Let there be mourner’s veils

on every hour marked by memory

that was whole once

in our perspective of eternity

and now has come to lie.

We will not live the future we prepared,

nor will you bear the child we both conceived

out of that stillness spread among the fields.

Outside our mourning

the western plains open us to different horizons.

Somewhere among the irresistible crop

we’ll meet again at harvest time.