Cigacice [t͡ɕiɡaˈt͡ɕit͡sɛ] (German: Tschicherzig) is a village in the administrative district of Gmina Sulechów, within Zielona Góra County, Lubusz Voivodeship, in western Poland.[1] It lies approximately 6 kilometres (4 mi) south of Sulechów and 13 km (8 mi) north-east of Zielona Góra.
The village on the banks of the Oder River was the scene of one of the final battles of WWII.
These days there is a peaceful recreational boating culture, outdoor restaurants, and I played a concert on a ship moored there in the channel. At night in the twilight between summer and autumn I would listen to the boat creak and bubbles rise and acorns falling on distant metal roofs
& that something extra of voice that summons the poems
it was a chilly night dawning
where the sun sinking bubbles
finally over the waters' ripple
nothing ever moves but the waves
& there seems no sense in estimations
overstepping the undulations
the people sense what they will
& the light falls where it may
water hears everything
that galleon at the bottom
sings the science of the loom
thread-barren boundaries
riddled molecules
ringed ever the dance,
whatever spins the tenda
known inside the mind's
silence beckoning
the world's shut mouth:
that is the faith saying:
I believe nothing
in particular, I await
that which in music
makes silence greater
which the godless alone
waking to their own
disquiet fathom
greater than faith
and worthy of
further silence still
3
water hears you
again the un-listeningthat galleon at the bottom
sings the science of the loom
thread-barren boundaries
riddled molecules
ringed ever the dance,
whatever spins the tenda
known inside the mind's
silence beckoning
the world's shut mouth:
that is the faith saying:
I believe nothing
in particular, I await
that which in music
makes silence greater
which the godless alone
waking to their own
disquiet fathom
greater than faith
and worthy of
further silence still
3
water hears you
shimmer with arrogance
and curse the deception
that matter has nor ears
nor reason yet frozen
in the fluid flux
rain will scatter as
petals of indifference
that float the hereunder
pull of force truth
begs ever to differ
by every plangency
the secret washer
of the souls soothing
off cooling the passion
assuring the distance
remains the same
between us
4
it was a blinding and yet so un-blinding light
to be drawn beyond the boundaries of one's own language/ yet reside in none
-- you cannot beg to offer blindness
"there won't be any war with a face, I'm afraid"
said Kashyat, speaking to the lamp
by way of advance complaint, retrograde
we have in common those things which people see not
yet no concord about the unseen
you may have been Papusza, grandamme
mother of my grammar
born within the wary
yet never alarmed
5
a head of flame
on the verge of the water
this campfire
reflected in the stir-less burden of mist
weaving multiple
horizons into one, clear stench
like the small bear
matted fur, sweat & shit,
all inverted, rises
on the horizon then arches
like the old bear mother
and the river between the wars
shines like a beacon
in the eyes of the gypsy, alone
haunted and waiting:
these things appear
linked, unique
the head of the flame out there
on the German side
like a drop of water
inverted, sinks
upon a stem, a neck
the tear-drop of the gourd
and sputters out with steam
droplets, fireworks
and the lute or the oud, yes
the oud, waves, summons,
my oud now like a barque
emerges and floats
in search of strings
seeking tether insubstantial
to stars, the tones
the 9 spirits
6
the more stars one sees the more the light becomes a cloud
fine
No comments:
Post a Comment