Tuesday, 11 February 2014

Odysseus Before The Window.

I hear a trumpet this night, visualize the trumpeter’s lips
pursed, the cheeks
inflated to produce a sound
that echoes in the spaces between the disks of my spine
as I stand naked this night, this
implausibly hot night.

The heat makes everything unreal… trapped here
unable to move, the trumpet’s sound creating me, undoing me,
calling me home and away again, prying into my mind.

I grow fearful I might forget who I have become - the choices
that cannot be unmade; the actions,
thoughtless and destructive, that litter
like sun-glinting bottles strewn beside a highway.

This Van Gogh night - the colours melt, merge, bend
with sounds, with smells, with memory; the stars are not
right and yet
their swirling bright attack on the dark,
like that trumpet,
gives me heart as I stand in the front
of this open window, the breeze wafting
as the brick exudes heat and my mind
imagines a thousand possible excuses…

she stirs behind me -

I had hoped this was not to be or
that this me standing here
was not me

or that the picture I had tried to paint
as my life

had become my reality and the trumpet was soothing
The Siren calling me out again.

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