 |
Steven Yook
The Land of the Spirits
In Memory of Heinrich Zimmer
Voyager, you with hands enough to stir
the winds to streams to seas. Oceans
cannot contain your wandering will as
you after you after you.
You have been with the salt of the earth,
drinking wine with hyperborean mirth. Enough
is never enough as you stretch yourself further
through streamages of breath 'til the breath
is liquid fire -- your whole body is a fire; your soul,
an illumination of life.
Further and still further it carries you. The tenor
is now the vehicle. You are simply a figment of
semantics. You before you before you are woven
inside yourself -- an adult to a child to a womb
of Forbidden Knowledge. Eye after eye after eye
overtakes you. Rose to rose to rose: the archetype,
the thing and the image are in oneness.
The Seal of Soloman leads to the Star of David. The journey
without, within -- the fourfold truth, the threefold revelation,
the twofold breath into the one jewel. The future is imminent
as a stranger or a friend. Your eyes are on fire. Your brain is
a messenger of the spirit, Light. The future is a well, volcano
about to tweak into blushes.
The stars are drops in space. About them lie infinite pockets
in opposition and harmony with one another. Time extends and space
extends -- the float of the melody of our senses, the concrete happening
of our lives as the self after self after self. The voices of sirens kisses
the sails of the ear after ears.
After Years
Again we meet without
quite knowing the words
which express, which connect
the things we might have felt
through young, shapeless shells.
We were in the lap
of something so simple,
100% together: a tingling
from the spine, a merry-go-
round of whirls within a vane
of a ballerina music-box.
We broke. Toys, we tried
to fix ourselves fast. No
limbs dare touch those parts --
no one really seeks the stiff motion
of that thing, of that moment,
of that pulse.
Nor could you shoulder/
absence of feeling. Your purse
lost in memories -- a shovel
at sea.
We lie like castles of sand:
disposable, soulless, washed... by
the salt of the roaring waves... together
in limbo with fabulous imprints
on our frail, discrete bodies.
We stare at the ceiling, blank.
We imagine, imagine nothingness.
Sweet, sweet chirping of sparrows outside
through partly-lidded windows.
|
 |
