Thursday, July 29, 2010

David V

"Then one morning about eleven o’clock, as she stood by the open window and looked out over the sea with sad, yearning eyes, she heard the notes of a piano sound softly through the house, as if it were in gentle accord with wind and waves. The music was so quick, so smooth, so wonderfully fluent and masterly, so sure and firm, like an army of splendid beings bringing her tidings of peace and love".

"To Hedwig, who was so anxious to get well that, like all melancholy people, she was always thinking about her own condition, this meeting seemed to be a blessing sent to do her good. For this man possessed the power of raising her mind out of the drifting sands of melancholy and sinful imaginings. If he would only play to her".

-Frederik van Eeden, "Van de koele mere des doods"

"How could I leave?"
He asked himself
Though, he had never been there
But he jotted down the maps
Of the parks and of the jolts
Remembered pathways back home
Down the alleys, rained upon
Charcoal passages
That divided the other writer
From the true object of his affections
He wondered where could home be
What it would be like
Had he been not so late in life
Drawing sketches of the space
In his mind, awake all night
Trying not to think of illness
Of the irreparable damage
In the eye, the ear and the hand
In the walls, at the prison
He drew fountain springs
Thus, while bleeding
Navigating in this last breath
Of his own bodily life
He dreamt, for a last time
Swimming in the tiny rivers
Extending from the bed to the lightbulb
He had never seen something this beautiful
There was this tiny mountain, a hill
And an island, uninhabited, heavenly
Frozen waters surrounded it
Bathing the northern earth
In foams of grayest fogs
There were other moments
More perverse
He would not dare jot them down
They were like flights
At the expense of the canvas
Untouched by the world, by the blood
The eyes of a wolf, of erratic legs
Constant and transparent blue
Neutral to the language of the limbs
Only the glass could reach the lip
Tombstones afar
Travelling southwards
The first movements of the mouth
A big haul of fish for the fall
Receding toward the sorrow of the pencil
As if the flood of a tide
Swallowing big islands, then the immensity too
The physical pain again, steamrolls
First from the left eye, through the throat, into the back
Contaminated from the hairchest of former lovers
Now forgotten, condemned, unmentioned
Yet the skin still this soft, like paper, like the sun
Unused by the time, free and so unkind
So absolutely mortal, faithless, self-contained
When will I arrive there?
He asked himself
Though, he had never left
The heart knew well the maps
He could no longer feel
The motions, the jerks, the options
The city was still there
An empty bed, bloodied and transparent
Crawling through fields of wheat and figs
Thousands of miles from afar
His body making love with the mud
And the stones, unconscious as he was
Drowning at last
With only one eye open
Through the viscous waters of silt
Watching abovewards
The airplanes flying abroad
So helpless this moment of love
He imagined the hours
And the minutes, the years after the hours
Even the first time, after the last
Until the stream engulfed by the bridge
Would cut off his last glimpse, of this world
Beautiful as it was, unpromising, unsettling
He sent his love in a boat
That by mistake
Was bound for Rotterdam
Then he awoke
He wasn't dead
But yet, he wasn't there

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