Post by inkpetal on Jan 27, 2008 14:00:27 GMT -8
First Blood Orange
(1995)
We peel the rough skin off
with twists of fingers and curls of wrist
to find inside a crimson jewel of fruit
We're in Rome and market day bustles
around us, busy with its familiar commerce
exaggerated gestures and foreign words shouted out -
look, taste, buy!
Ancient pillars prop up a backdrop of vibrant life
a cornucopia of shape and color that stuns the eyes,
violet eggplants, baby artichokes, stacks of silver-scaled fish,
a scent of spices waft from bins; cardamon, curries and cinnamon.
In the next aisle hang huge hog heads
skewered on iron hooks and live octopus
float aimless arms in saltwater tanks.
Handfuls of freshly-picked herbs bound in twine
neatly arranged in rows, tucked
around garlic as big as fists stacked high.
Behind the humming landscape looms the Coliseum
amphitheatre of ancient torture and bloodlet sport.
We perch on a hill overlooking centuries of civilization
above the noxious fumes that spew from tour buses and buzzing vespas.
Movement like a barrage of imagined roman armies
bristling with brash intent over trampled fields.
We share the blood-orange, once
a pristine white beginning, evolved into scented bloom
and wipe the sanguineous juice
that cascades down chins as we chew.
Nothing is said, a pause is sensed,
silence prolongs a stillness
as it grasps both flesh and loss in endless cycles.
How we say the things we say
never quite changes, the end
for instance, or cauda in latin
meaning tail, that path to follow,
and coda is what prolongs the inevitable
in music notes, another way of saying
this moment, this moment, this moment, forever.
And then the spell is broken,
a church bell chimes in timeless space
and a sweet, soft breeze
lifts the world, fresh and ancient
off into another direction
__
(1995)
We peel the rough skin off
with twists of fingers and curls of wrist
to find inside a crimson jewel of fruit
We're in Rome and market day bustles
around us, busy with its familiar commerce
exaggerated gestures and foreign words shouted out -
look, taste, buy!
Ancient pillars prop up a backdrop of vibrant life
a cornucopia of shape and color that stuns the eyes,
violet eggplants, baby artichokes, stacks of silver-scaled fish,
a scent of spices waft from bins; cardamon, curries and cinnamon.
In the next aisle hang huge hog heads
skewered on iron hooks and live octopus
float aimless arms in saltwater tanks.
Handfuls of freshly-picked herbs bound in twine
neatly arranged in rows, tucked
around garlic as big as fists stacked high.
Behind the humming landscape looms the Coliseum
amphitheatre of ancient torture and bloodlet sport.
We perch on a hill overlooking centuries of civilization
above the noxious fumes that spew from tour buses and buzzing vespas.
Movement like a barrage of imagined roman armies
bristling with brash intent over trampled fields.
We share the blood-orange, once
a pristine white beginning, evolved into scented bloom
and wipe the sanguineous juice
that cascades down chins as we chew.
Nothing is said, a pause is sensed,
silence prolongs a stillness
as it grasps both flesh and loss in endless cycles.
How we say the things we say
never quite changes, the end
for instance, or cauda in latin
meaning tail, that path to follow,
and coda is what prolongs the inevitable
in music notes, another way of saying
this moment, this moment, this moment, forever.
And then the spell is broken,
a church bell chimes in timeless space
and a sweet, soft breeze
lifts the world, fresh and ancient
off into another direction
__
