In Search of the word
A conductor’s apprentice he seeks the strings of the cosmos
plucking at the occasional breeze through leaves of his thoughts.
Dreaming of Chopin on a shore of pebbles complex as the last snow
he gently taps an index as he searches for the darkest ivories.
Perhaps the rhythm of an Africa he lost long ago will animate his soul
drumming through the spheres a message sweet as a heavenly nectar.
Breath fresh as that of a new born in the early morning mist
he calls to the depths of space with the melody of the reed.
Musician he knows the immaterial orchestra surrounds his presence
child in the first lessons of the metronome he remains silent.
Twirling drunken artist desperate for expression he stumbles
still and forever unable to capture in the air a sound to make up a sign.
Six AM on the hill as
fog settles upon the antlers
of deer frolicking unaware of
the troubles festering below
trains clamour in the dense night
in a chain of unending defeats.
Seconds would flow slowly if they could
groggy too from a peaceful slumber
but the silence is too much for man
as he reasserts his dominion upon the trees
roaring at the wheel of his infernal machines
trumpets blaring his only token to existence.
And they scream those children of inconsiderate days
needless maleness affirming obscenities
into the ears of the innocent quadrupeds
puzzled by the sirens of the dying
when fires burn across town
and teenagers set the alarms of prized heaps of oil and gasoline.
Six AM still and I would rather awaken in the jungle
with the laughter of hungry hyenas
the groan of an old crownless king
the uncertainty of another day
than to live among the wild
humans deprived of the souls we once loved.
Forgotten in a frigid room of tile and ice water
a counter as cold as the stone of his recent slumber
the fragrant aroma lives in every pore
companion to a cream and the freshness of the blade.
Morning ritual never bypassed, the tools now rest
silent, covered in the memories of their soul
thin rays of a noble sun attempt to break this death
rejoicing in what may still remain.
He lives, they scream; in another world they too survive
it only takes a moment of quietude to hear again
the soft touch of the razor to the dying hair
under the sharp gaze of those unfailing greys.
The old cologne, the razor and the delicate suds
in awe of what he once was dare not make a slight move
they will wait until it is time to journey to oblivion
dust, on the mantel by the abyss of the mirror.
She looked at the giant a million miles above
attempting to escape on all six in the dirt
it had not been a moment as she thought
since she had devoured a particle of dust.
The monstrosity continued on its merry way
moving mountains at the bottom of a sole
infinite in its blind power to achieve oblivion
upon a world suspect only to its gentle kin.
A tremor soon shakes their home like a quake
so strong to swallow all things, redemption
the killer has collapsed under an unseen thumb
pressing on a life so feeble in its illusion of invincibility.
Within the carcass a little thing crawls
warm in the home of these shrinking entrails
it seeks a place to raise its immense family
food aplenty in the bounty of this fleshy planet.
Tomorrow will see another light
a dimming sun will become supernova
victim to its own appetite for eternal strength
it may even beg for a respite.
Sitting atop the cozy enclave of a palace
he contemplates the cadaver of a brother
stabbed in the heart by such a little thing
another sun’s life shuddered by a tiny moon.
In the thick darkness of his den
composer of many sonatas he sits
blank music sheets waiting for his hand.
He gave up the drink long ago
finding the void a greater inspiration
enveloped in the shroud of upcoming ecstasy.
He drew the spots and let them dance
on the sheet where he once dreamed of her
falling back into a sleepy mood in her embrace.
In a dreary afternoon surrounded by icy mists
a gentle hearth brought life to the air
staring through a dark glass her image came to.
An evening like so many more and a sigh
inviting the apparition to come into his chambers
so life came to the notes in a fantastic symphony.
Another dusk would set onto the adorned parchment
quiet among the creatures of his night
under a crescent moon scarred with her pains.
For a while he was whole again in the desert
of an existence made of mere illusions of an oasis
living with her who yet was unaware of the gift.
Fabrice B. Poussin - teaches French and English at a university in Georgia, USA. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other publications worldwide. His collections “In Absentia,” and “If I Had a Gun,” were published by Silver Bow in 2021 and 2022.
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