Thursday, 17 September 2015

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 40



The Interpretation of Dreams

Smoke, mirrors, a rest in the forest
alfresco,
sometimes a found object suggesting a whole mosaic:
glass marbles, beads, pebbles found on the beach,
everything I find interesting, not only
gold between layers.

New love songs, a new way of seeing—
if nothing else, I have become more brave.
When I look at you, I feel I am looking
into a physical memory.
The words of the inscription so filled with ice,
the letters are hard to decipher, this desolate spot, 54
degrees 54 minutes north latitude, 25 degrees 19
minutes east longitude.

French geographers and Lithuanian patriots are convinced,
the geographical centre of Europe is located
precisely on this unassuming hill.
A stone marks the spot,
only 15 miles from glittering Vilnius.
I think this is the centre, she says.

After all, they didn’t just think it up.

One day, we’ll understand what this is worth.
Here, we created a real process.
...

A January’s night.
All the windows are covered by different landscapes. The cold
draws them on the glass.
I light up a candle and open the door.

It smells of old times,
books, albums, toys, clothes.
I find a photo.

There are two people sitting side by side here.
They are smiling, happy.

The photo is really old, but very nice.
It’s in Lithuania. The weather’s good.
I open imperceptibly the other side of the photo,
and I see.

I live quite far from your place,
but surely distance doesn’t matter.

A few times I was nearly abducted in my dreams.
What I meant was that, in my dreams, sometimes women
approach me,
asking how do they plant the poppies.
This way, this way, that and that way,
that is how they plant the poppies.

Yes, I would like to learn more about future dreams,
each guest bringing a symbolic gift.
Rabbit, let’s run. The sky is falling.

We made our way
down a street overhung with chocolate gables.
My guide presses an unmarked buzzer,
and we go through a darkened hall.
There are people he says he knows,
but no one speaks to him.

They are more interested
in the vodka and herring on the table.
I try the local dialect, they all look up for a moment,
then return to the herring.

It’s then I tell them who I am.
The most beautiful woman I have ever seen
walks over, says to me in such a way I know it to be true,
everything you need is here.

A fish the size of a mountain swims through the room,
bumping gently between us, sliding past.

Does this gaudy morphology mean anything to you?

Glimpses turn into shadows.
The fish moves in unison with other things. Yesterday it was
a tiny metallic fish she wore. All the elders
remember it that way,
turning in the river current, nothing moving,
the vodka burning in my glass, blue, blue.

Another incident.
I felt like something was coming straight
to me. At first I thought it lightning, but I thought
how does this happen with no cloud in the sky,
and much the same outside as the day before?

When the practitioner did her analysis, the results
were so astonishing, she repeated
the measurements over and over again.

Fireplaces were blazing, or appeared to,
adding to the shadows thrown across
wooden floors, the stone walls, the way your eyes’ greeny gold
held the world.

After months waiting, the envelope.
You open it carefully along the fold, not spoiling the return
address.

You read the letter,
the winter night leaning against the window.

But you are already standing in sunlight, the high thin cloud
a Cyrillic notation on deeper blue, soft
tipped wheat waves brushing against you as you walk
towards her, through the door
she promised would be there.

In that place, two rivers converging, and there
your life, a promise
farther apart, with no hope of broad valleys.
Farewell to the lovely lakes, a meeting place, a town
at the coming together of the two rivers,
embracing the enclosed spaces,
woods, meadows, rocks,
refusing to lift your memory into the stars.

How water is healed describes the long wave,
earth’s gravity grid, the 12 faced zodiac
the result of braiding, pushing, massaging the symmetry,
allowing information to move
between worlds,
latitude, longitude, the confluence neither entirely in the mind
nor in the place,
contained in the memory of people.

Your passport, a passport photograph:
you in the red dress, water becoming ordered and full of life,
braided like this, in the snow melt
our revealing angel.

From the south,
a waiting anchorage, clock pulses, no conversation now,
only the minutes waiting.
We haven’t that long to live,
waiting for palms
surrounded by endless coral reefs, a hammock,
the distance long and difficult,
the stillness between notes and pathways all changed.
I knew a story had begun, perhaps long ago.

I stare at the photograph, and imagine you
returning to this new life.

You are sleeping, or nearly sleeping. You say
each drowsy breath will only complicate you— trust in me
and fall as well.

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