The Fruits of Limbo

 

June 2, 2011

We are back from Europe and...what? It's hard to say really. I've scaled time zones, have shifted sleep and eating patterns, have shared with strangers, have spoken exotic words, have eaten the cuisines of the regions, have seen these regions themselves. So there is the wind outside now, a soft hush. I have straddled the world in over eighteen hours. My life here awaits me and yet the wind of limbo, this place of “just having come from” and “not yet entering into” is quiet. I want to fill it immediately with poems and writing and memory. With lessons learned. But there should be a time to just...digest. No? Now all of these new memories will integrate themselves into my life. So, traveling and traversing time zones is good for a fresh perspective. Yes.

I only wonder if it will last.

Here are some new poems:

42. Sojourn to Lucerne

I.

We land here asleep. Logistics, maps

abandoned. We follow the river, sit

where the floodgates have opened,

Drink wine.

At nightfall- the illuminated banks.

The fat troll at the bridge's gate lies

drunk and requires no fee. Above

him, history resides in the rafters.

Death's debonair bones pose with the

fashionable flesh of life.

II.

We ascend above the ramparts, above

the Earth's crook and curve, half veiled.

Within the hour, the last veil falls to

the soft tussle of bells.

We descend through a path in the wood,

flanked by shrines. Someone has left

nosegays at their footings. We murmur

what we remember of our childhood

prayers.

III.

We scale the city's walls. Put our

fingers in the holes of the fortress. Touch

timeless stones.

IV.

We honor the dead masters, wander

their rooms eyeing divine strokes,

pieces of woman, the auburn shift

of light. We weary pilgrims recognize

our own faces

unclothed bodies,

robust hips

manifested in paint.

43. Equanimity

Get up. Walk barefoot to the mat.

Sit cross legged. Ring the bowl.

Pet the dog as her cold nose nudges

your hand. Bow to the array of

leaves. Breathe. Twitch. Stretch.

Greet the first arrow.

44. The Musee d'Unterlinden

Two American teenage boys point

to something wedged between a wall

and the Crucifixion.

A middle aged French woman in a

chemise blanc and a jupe noir, carries

an unraveled coat hanger. She maneuvers

the hook to snatch a petit oiseau. Drags

it across the ancient stone.

Le petit oiseau sits for a moment in the

woman's hand, stupefied.

The woman closes her hands over

the petit oiseau, carries it to an overgrown

shrub in the courtyard. The petit oiseau

hops, falls, flies haphazardly to the

ground. Disappears.

C'est tous! The woman exclaims.

It lives, says one boy.

For now, says the other.

I am left alone with the absent bird.

Thinking of its fledgling's wings,

it's fledgling life.

Of faith.