( via / via / via )

First Notes Toward a Poetics of Liberation.

"THE SILENCE OF GOD

One night upon the southern sea
In helpless calm we lay,
Waiting for day,
   Waiting for day.

As goldripe fruit fall from a tree
A comet fell; no other sight,
But in the ocean tracks of light
Trembled—then passed away,
   Away.

No sound broke on our waiting ears,
Though instinct whispered wayward fears
Of things we cannot tell—
   Of things the sea could tell.

No wisp of wind, no watery sound
Reached us; as if high on the ground
We stayed. A sense of fever fell
Upon each mind,
   Each soul and mind.

Until our eyes, that ever sought
The cloying empty darkness, find
Another shape—or is it wrought
Of terror?—on the deep
   The endless deep.

All dark it lay. No light shone out;
And though we cried across, no shout
Came back to us. As if in sleep
The black bulk lay so still,
   So still.

No sign came back; no answering cry
Cleft the immense monotony
That swathed us like a funeral pall,
In folds of menace; almost shrill
The silence seemed,
   And we so small.

Swiftly a boat was lowered down;
The rowlocks creaked; our track shone white
Behind us like God's frown,
   God's frown.

We clambered up that great ship's height;
There was no light; there was no sound;
Nor was there any being found
Upon that ship,
   That ship.

We groped our way along. God knows
How long the rats had been alone
With dust and rust! Yet flight was shown
To have been instant, in the grip
Of some force stronger than its foes
   —Its human foes.

* * * * *

Then sudden from the dark there thrilled
The distant dying of a song
That hung like haze upon the sea, and filled
Each soul with joy and terror strong,
   With joy and terror strong.

Upon the sombre air were spent
These notes, as from a hidden place
Where all time and all love lay pent
In lingering embrace—
   In lingering embrace.

Deep in our hearts we felt the call;
We knew that if our fate should send
That song again, we must leave all
And follow to the end,
   The end."

--Osbert Sitwell

"...'a cheap crummy carnival of death,' as the newspaper editor puts it, which is the worst kind of carnival of death."

"I remember a mentor once told a poet friend of mine, 'You can't bite the head off a pigeon in every poem.' " --@versedailypoems

My Life online.