To begin ...

As the twentieth century fades out
the nineteenth begins
it is as if nothing happened
though those who lived it thought
that everything was happening
enough to name a world for & a time
to hold it in your hand
unlimited.......the last delusion
like the perfect mask of death

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Mark Weiss: Suite of Dances XXIV: Song of a Leaping Girl

Unfolds herself from the chair.

Each line a decision.

“Already the years will pass without me.”

This time of year no nights are green,
Maid Marian.

Lost thoughts
now revealed in all their nakedness.

The lover and his loss.

Here on Treasure Island.

the Lord of the Isles
the King of Skye.

Simultaneity of forms.

The desperate lives of squirrels.

The random wilderness,
the stories we never told.

As a Jew among Christians
it's never forgotten.
The map of the world a map of scars.

Songs of a leaping girl.
Remember how terrible this beauty,
and what its cost.

Sometimes the simplest tunes.

Heroes, for the children
who survive.

Your fate is Fate.
Your fate's to be fated.

Those rhyming twins the Sun and Moon
whom a dream hath possessed.
“You may talk to god,
but not to me.” And he,
“I am the only god
you need to talk to.”

Bring your name and nothing more and come to me
here in the mountains.


Starting out
                        with a version
of there.

And something else had happened.

It's the simple things
that get forgotten.

Of poverty
a virtue
among his tribe.

The little girl protests her innocence,
realizes it’s hopeless,
and frowns.

Does mind speak
in this figurine?

If you wish, I can tell you
what you want to know.

Trick. Tricked out
and in.

So deft, she seems
to play an air
one strains
to listen for.

With a sigh,
Relents. It had been
too long.

Here it is, without a cause
in the world.

He prophesized:
you were offered
an end of time,
but it didn't happen.
Hold your breath
and it will still be there.
Prepare for other times.


My heart is not my own,
he said, re

Little enough to say.

Small dog
alone in the cold
cries for its master.

Teach acceptance to a crippled child.

They clothe their skins
with skins. “My skins,”                  
they call them.

Like a tune gone inwards.

In the in and out of sleep.

“You're the machine that squeaks,”
she tells him.

One learns the figures of the dance.

A table precise as an altar. Why not?
And eats the slain.

A woman
in water.
“So you say,”
she said.

or athwart upon.

Hunger pangs. “We all feel them,”
she told her children, “never mind.”
And went about her chores.

The same
woman, late
and soon.

A smear of meaning.


In the story a man digs a hole. Finding nothing,
he digs further, through eruptions and earthquakes and rising seas
and swamps and glaciers.
Nothing, no bones, no shards.
Autumn turns to winter turns to spring.
This hole
the only thing that's ever been there.
And on a day that's not
the anniversary of anything, he's done, enough,
and notices the sky, the plants, the breeze,
the hills that fill his yard,
and smiles. He thinks,
I'll place a marker here.

The serial exile's procession of names.

Last chances are last chances.

Distill in silence.

All dead, these brief creatures,
says the tree.

Gray day   red head in a green
glade bobs above the privet.

The light
picks out a moment
from the edges of cities.

Not the ball, but the arc
it traces, as a white thought
carries the wind.

In the morning she looks in the mirror,
and sighs. Stains
of whatever histories.
The moment's gravity. And the sun
has also marked her passage.

Reflections of clouds
and reflected on clouds
and reflections of clouds.

Cried and cried,
and then she died.

Little enough
to save from the wreck.

[note. A writer of remarkable skills & insights, Weiss has written of the present venture: “I’ve joked before that my work isn’t so much composition by field as composition of field. A Suite of Dances might be composition by notebook. It’s an extension of the way I’ve worked for the past 25 years. Probably I’ve been reacting to an anxiety felt by translators, historians, and archaeologists in the absence of context. This is close to context in the absence of event. Though I hope that there’s something like an architecture, perhaps musical, holding it together. The title suggests, for me, at least, the baroque, when suites of dances were a major form, and my understanding of baroque art in all media as an attempt to experience the heterogeneity of event not as chaos but as something like a grand, encompassing chord. The selection above is part 24 of 28 named parts, filling 200 pages.” An earlier section appeared previously in Poems and Poetics.]

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