Monday, September 20, 2004

Beyond tomorrow

I feel that my life is calling me to a place I have forever dreamt about. A place that feels like home, and yet that seems depressingly out of reach.
Today, and yesterday, I feel like the road that leads to great things is pulling me by the hand, great things that I always thought were mine and were me. Things without which I would be somebody else. Today I can hear the calling, but my eyes see little of a blur.
Must I follow a voice that might be none other but the screams of my own anguish and deception.. Must I turn away and take the road of a crisp horizon.. Must I trail my instincts and run after my dreams..

My life so far was chosen for me. The failures I might endure shall not be my own. If now I choose to take the ship that hugs the storm, the shores I might dock on will be ones of enchantment and wonder.
Yet if the storm wrecks my ship, I will be drowning alone. And I will be dying a million deaths, like the prophet who lived long enough to see none of his prophecies fulfilled.

My fingers are cramping. I feel strangely consumed. Consumed by my choice, when my choice is but one that was carved in the shape of my skull, the color of my eyes, in my father, my land, in each planet and each sun.

Funny. Consumed by my choice when my choice will always be me, but will never be really mine. Ever.

My fingers are cramping again. Maybe I should sleep. Maybe the night will whisper something in my ear. Maybe tomorrow I will know that beyond tomorrow is where I am truly destined to be.


Blogger euphorialapse said...

What Can Be Said

Pylons of moonlight strum through the night.

Windows line up in dusk-drained grids.

Dogs sniff garbage
in a hundred alleys, crosses
tarnish atop gravestones and churches.
City lights, molten inside
their blank dominion, reach beyond
their own inchoate shining
to tinge the gulf opening round the moon
half-risen, jets
slicing that nimbus.

What can be said under such influence?

That the day, lived through in obdurate passion,
as I live with you,
never lapses into oblivion, some wisp
or granule of care outlasting
even the coffin or crematory fire?

Moon so full in scarred, quiet abandonment,
what can be said under such influence?

Tonight, collapsing piers, barbwire rusting
and macadam crumbling
shine in its potholed light.

In absences and voids that mimic
gulfs opening round splintering stars,
adventurers of flesh and ruined mind
set out toward home half-drunk from the bars;
and as they fare forward, won't some of them
put on the mask
of old man Oedipus chanting
blind on the road to Colonus, their words
fated, ecstatic, self-reviling,
printing like X-rays
on the clouds' subconscious?

Inside this poem's grid of letters,
place of risk and consignment of my will,
here I want to make you invulnerable
to Apollo, who taunts Oedipus,

Now that I, a god, have destroyed you,
what do you most want?

The old man answers, dignified, defiant,

Don't steal from me my child.

And all the while the city holds steady,
city that never goes fully dark
though extinguished light by light.

Tom Sleigh
The Yale Review
Volume 91, Number 3
July 2003

1:06 AM  
Blogger zm said...

Here’s something that I just thought of… it could be yours?

My only roots are made of paper: books gathered and piled up pages, letters I cannot resign to throw away, collected stamps put into boxes. From my tree there surges some kind of foliage, i.e. leaves for the songs uttered by others: they land, they fly again, they have pleasant plumage and nest very high.
Is there a place on earth where I would at last be able to unpack? A place where my memory would at last let its roots grow? Where the past would take its time? I am hungry and thirsty, you know, I miss so many things, I would like to find the truth about my beginnings. Is there indeed such a place welcoming the lived time that was once mine? A place still free and not affected by other people's memories? Not an empty place but a plain one? An understanding one, whose seasons would still have to be invented? A native land from the end of one's life: where one would like to, and know how to, die. Home, at last, just for some while.

Jean-Michel Maulpoix, The traveller's will

4:08 PM  

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