Those French boys, second job poets, knew how to fly. Ask
the last pilot he'd argue they were simply trying to over rise
great war ruinations, though their wheels barely left the ground.
Like the hour hand in cane fields raised
to wipe high brow, shape shift on horse cork hat skin peelers; right
at which point ̶ no camera record ̶ neck chords stretch new syllables
for ghost bird flaring bone intuitivity. A sail plane drawing light.
Had we known then they existed, imagine this night jam: Cuatro
breath picks scanning long stuck hope in sheet less throat as wood
winds wait at the Bachland gates and creole prints decline Cézanne
liked shimmery palms, our efflorescence bruised.
Not much now [we who came through] we could do?
Hard enough to leave the village
dead trees down settle for town ship shack land fill scratch the search
when body parts.
Yet ocean news broad
cast now Libya boarding . brokers back to belly stoking. With faith
stall sea cross beam to bear ̶ la fin préférable à distance ̶ wade
out wager all in.
Who knows? Des Imagistes returning
might buzz your wave defences; might air drop flight hide patterns
for too oil slick delta wings.
For starters, look closely ̶
the aureole round that captain's head, wreath laurel or crow circle?
that .dot funnel on the horizon, rescue ship coming or going?
Arm over
arms in wonder, stroke the breath beats. Deep sunk, reach up > touch
the black obelisk. Rocks so you Rock so,
– W.W.
THE OTHER VOICE
Let its flame slip through the cracks
of your usualness:
sometimes there is no other way
to keep on becoming,
as the sun at your core will
either translate itself
as rays of word, or choke you.
At other times, voice is nothing
but a maze of broken
babble, writer's or reader's,
and you are reminded
how dense spirit's mask can be,
how sealed its heavy sleep
against flares of light would
challenge, when all you want is your
latest dark distraction,
your next tale of boys and girls
stubbing their souls against
their furniture of desire
and fear ̶ perfect reading
of your own soul's postponed text
of urgent pain as the blade
to cut through custom's crust,
just to cast you in one more
mêlée-drama of change,
some drab nightmare that will force
you awake to allow
the flame to utter its need.
(from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 